Synergy
by InsanityInReverse
Summary: Shortly after returning from a year long trip, Ludwig is assigned with the seemingly simple task of being the attendant of a bride-to-be, escorting her across the ocean. And the problem? This "bride" is a nobleman, temporarily cursed with a woman's body, and is none too pleased with the situation at hand. However, affection is known for cropping up in the oddest of places. [GerCan]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N **;; Prepare yourself, readers. It's time for a new story – and it's a **GerCan** this time! I've never tried to write this pairing, though I absolutely adore it, so let's see how I do, hmm? I'm predicting this story to be _at least _forty chapters and I've already written up to chapter three (though that's not really that far...), so updates should come fairly quickly.

I don't know how well I wrote Germany in this chapter. He seems... a little... _off_ to me, but I'm not sure what the problem is, exactly. I do like Prussia in this chapter, though... and France.

For those who aren't aware of the human names, here are the characters that appear in this chapter (from this point on, characters that reappear will not be noted again):

**Prussia – **Gilbert Beilschmidt  
**Germany – **Ludwig (Beilschmidt) _Germany isn't listing as having a last name, as far as I know. _**  
France – **Francis Bonnefoy**  
Cuba – **(Alejandro)

Those names enclosed in parentheses are either unofficial or of my own creation.

* * *

**Synergy **

**...o...**

**Chapter One**

**...o...**

* * *

"Gut! Get 'im in the gut!"

"Oi, or bash 'is fucking bloody brain in!"

The raucous whoops and hollers erupted in a ceaseless stream – bloodthirsty, shamelessly explicit in their lust for pain and brutality. Ludwig, eyes locked on the darkly flushed face before him – already wet and shining, slick with sweat – heard none of it. Instead, he thought in heartbeats.

_One..._

His opponent lunged. More sloppy than last time, Ludwig noted – the man's movements were beginning to grow desperate as his strength ran low. Ludwig swerved. He ducked and, sweeping out a foot, caught a slippery wrist and forearm with a master's efficiency.

_Two..._

Centre of balance disrupted, his opponent staggered, grunting hoarsely as e buried himself on Ludwig's knee and bruises – but not breaking – his valuable ribcage.

_Three..._

Fraught, now, his opponent attempted a flailing retaliation shot. He aimed for Ludwig's ribs, all his weight set on one foot.

_Four..._

Ludwig let the man's already slipping wrist go, leaving him with no type of base support. A single, wide-eyed moment of disoriented panic crossed the man's face before–

_Five..._

–the man's heavy body hit the merciless, unforgiving dirt and gravel with a loud thud. He managed to roll away just in time, executing an impressive escape from Ludwig's follow-up.

_Six..._

Ludwig caught the glint of silver metal before anyone. A dagger, barely visible, fitted into the fold of his opponent's loose trouser leg. A ray of sunshine caught the blade and made it glitter as it slid from pant leg to palm, the silver gleam matching the malicious sheen in his opponent's eyes. As the man's chapped lips pulled back in a snarl, his eyes blinking away sweat, Ludwig steeled himself.

_Seven..._

_Shwip _went the dagger, slicing air where Ludwig's neck had been half a moment ago. His opponent grunted, choking on air as three of his ribs collapsed under the force of Ludwig's knee. His body fell with a useless thump as his opponent was knocked unconscious, his body dropping like a weighty ragdoll to the filthy ring floor. Strategic blows to the neck and temple would have sent his opponent's brain into temporary rudimentary shutdown by now.

_Eight..._

_Nine..._

_Ten..._

Ludwig's lungs greedily took in oxygen as he stepped back. The welcomed sound of cheers and the more familiar sound of hissed chuckles surrounded him and it was only when a rough hand clasped his shoulder did he turn, meeting his the wild grin of his older, shorter brother with a disapproving frown.

"Gilbert–"

"That was _awesome_!" Gilbert exclaimed, ignoring Ludwig's deepening scowl with practised indifference. "I knew you could do it. Didn't the Awesome Me say you could do it?" he asked, tossing the question over to his left with a cheeky grin towards the organizer of the match, a dolefully putout looking fellow in a faded suit. "I knew you could do it!" he said again, turning his attention back to his little brother. "Do you realize how rich you make us?"

"You mean you," Ludwig corrected.

"I mean _us_," Gilbert insisted, talking as he moved through the crowd and collecting winning from other, similarly dissatisfied looking bystanders as he went. Ludwig followed a half step behind, attention split between his sibling's ivory hair and the endless supply of shady, shabbily dressed peasant sailors – not a one of them unarmed. "It's not my fault you never accept your half–"

"Because I never asked for this–"

"–but you know I've been saving up for you anyway," Gilbert continued. "And you are right that–"

"Can we leave?"

"–you never do sign up, though really, the Awesome Me doesn't see why, because you could obviously rake in enough of a treasure trove to profit to spark a lair dragon's envy, but–"

"_Gilbert_..."

"Ja, ja, okay. Just one more!" Gilbert promised, slapping Ludwig on the shoulder before following the comment with an immediate yell of, "Hey! Alejandro!" as he jogged out to a far corner, halting a man somewhere between three and four times his size. He held out an expectant palm, deadly pale skin clashing with the coffee-brown skin of "Alejandro". "Your call, my friend. It was double or nothin' and the odds just weren't in your favour today. Pay up!"

As Ludwig watched, the burly man scowled, opening thick lips, as if to object. Then a moment, before doing so, he threw a hesitant, appraising glance in Ludwig's own direction. Apparently, he changed his mind. "Alejandro" clamped his mouth shut once again, upper lip curling back in disgust as he rummaged for a moment in a deep pocket, eventually pulling out a sizable, jingling brown sac and dumping it into Gilbert's waiting palm.

"Don't be expecting any more where _that _came from," the man growled sloppily, but Gilbert only grinned that shit-eating grin of his, unfazed. "The odds will be in my favour the next time we meet."

"Yeah, yeah. May the odds be ever in your favour and all that shit. But, I wouldn't worry." He smirked, swinging the sack around his belt, patting it with a wink. "It's going to a good home."

Ludwig greeted his brother's hissed chuckling with an unimpressed scowl. "You know," he said as they headed, finally, for the stairway exit, "making unnecessary enemies will only bring trouble."

"Oh, relax!" Gilbert waved off his concern with a flick of his wrist and a lazy shrug. "You know I can handle my own in there when you don't randomly show up to take my place and _'save' _my ass–"

"I told you not to–"

"And I ignored you," Gilbert replied, tossing open the door with a smirk and making Ludwig squint and shrink back at the sudden, harsh light of the sun. "I have before, I will again, and you know this before we've had this argument before. Many times."

Vision still slightly blurry, Ludwig lingered in the half shade of an overhang and blinked slowly as his eyes adjusted.

"In fact," Gilbert continued, "the only thing that the _I _still don't understand is why you still fill in for me. I mean–"

"And as I," Ludwig interrupted as he waited, "have explained before and probably will again..." He folded his arms, looking down slightly to meet his brother's eyes – eyes as red as a drop of blood, filled with mischief and amusement as their gazes locked – with level determination. "I refuse to stand by and watch as you submit yourself to that bloodbath. It is a filthy, barbarous habit–"

"–which I happen to love–"

"–which you should not be partaking in in the first place!"

"But _Lutz_..." Gilbert's lower lip budded out and Ludwig groaned. "How come you treat me like such a kid...?"

"Maybe," Ludwig replied, his voice low, "it is because you _act _like one."

Gilbert rolled his eyes skyward. "And I'm older by _how _many years?"

"Nearly a decade. Seven years."

"And whether or not you admit to it, I _can _take care of myself." Gilbert met Ludwig's dubious stare without blinking. "And you know it."

After a long moment, Ludwig's stance began to weaken, sighing, mentally wincing as he brought pinched fingers to the bridge of his nose. "Sometimes," he admitted, "I truly wish you had been born a girl..."

Gilbert snorted. "The fuck? And what good what that do?" The corner of his lip curved dangerously. "'Cause you know I'd still kick–"

"Language!"

"–...rear. Buttock. Tush."

Ludwig frowned and Gilbert smirked, laughing at his own words. The younger of the two brothers went to open his mouth, but was cut off by the obnoxious laugh and greeting of a familiar voice.

"Ludwig, mon ami!" a voice sang from behind the two brothers. "You scoundrel... You did très fantastique aujourd'hui!"

Ludwig threw their visitor a cursory glance over his shoulder, already having identified him by voice and the distinct shuffle of his footsteps. Francis Bonnefoy was his name – a family friend and a sometime go between for Ludwig and his employers, as bold as his ocean blue eyes and twice as audacious. He met Ludwig's look with a Cheshire grin.

"Ludwig, how did I know I would find you here, mon ami? Less than a day in and you are already hard at work relieving the scum of his place of their spare drinking money! Félicitations! We'll have soberer streets if you keep your pace, I think!" he teased, clapping his own two hands together in front of his chest. Across from Ludwig, Gilbert frowned.

"That," Ludwig said, "or they will learn not to bet against me. But it is not me you will have to thank for it."

Francis turned, for the first time bothering to spare a glance at Gilbert. He threw his arms out, palms up. "But of course! How could I dare to forget the ever-fair Gilbert! Lovely as the dawning day and sweeter than–"

"Go swallow gunpowder, Francy-pants," Gilbert growled.

"–a desert cobra, as always." Francis smiled, winking, and Gilbert bared his teeth in a grimace.

"Don't you have poor innocent schoolgirls to traumatize or something? We don't need your business."

"Oh, fear not, my dear lady! Mine is but a meagre business on this day." He glanced at Ludwig. "Though I do hope you'll consider it..." He looked back to Gilbert. "I wish only to diverge a small – though very rare and valuable, if I do say so myself – tidbit of information which I think your brother might find worthy to note."

He whipped out a small, worn note, presenting it with all due flair and an exaggerated bow to Ludwig – who, in turn, accepted it without comment. Gilbert watched as Ludwig scanned the text, curiosity and anxiousness mixing in his eyes as he noticed Ludwig frown.

"Francis, this is a babysitting job, not a guard post. And for a woman, no less." Ludwig shook his head. "I cannot–"

"Look again," Francis hummed, tapping the lower half of the sheet meaningfully. Ludwig pursed his lips, looked – and stared. After a long, drawn out moment, he raised his head.

"You cannot be serious."

Francis smiled. "Indeed I am."

Ludwig shook his head. "No, this is... ridiculous. How many extra zeros did you tack onto this? Two? Three?"

"None, Ludwig, I swear by all the things under the great golden sun, mom ami. Those numbers are real – and if they aren't, may God curse me with the blood of an Englishman for the remainder of my days."

Out of the corner of his eye, Ludwig noticed Gilbert snicker and shake his head. He looked back to the paper. With this amount, he could afford to stay at home – actually spend time with Gilbert without worrying about food or rent for... heavens above, how long would _this _last? "Why so much?" he asked. "And for one guard?" His eyebrows hiked up, completely thrown for a loop. "They could hire ten men for this price, easily. And half-decent ones, at that."

In response, Francis only shrugged. "What can I say? They're looking for the best of the best for their little princess–"

"_Princess?"_

"–daughter," Francis amended, waylaying Ludwig's momentary panic and shooting off the concern with a simple wave of his hand. "The family are estate lords, filthy aristocrats with a reputation, but not royalty, no. The point is that they want top notch, Ludwig, and you're the best man I know for this job, without a doubt. But if you can't take it..."

_There are plenty of others that would, _Ludwig finished the sentence for him – and no wonder. "This family..." he said aloud. "Turkeys or vultures?"

"Peacocks," Francis replied, smirking.

Ludwig grunted. "Lovely," he muttered. "This is just an escort mission?"

Francis scratched at the back of his head and Ludwig's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Hey, now, don't give me that look. It's... yes, basically just an escort mission. Only... well, you're hired to be her attendant..."

"Attendant," Gilbert repeated from the background, dubious. "And what exactly is he expected to 'attend' to?"

"Her _bags_, for one," Francis said, not missing the implication. "Her dresses, her food, her toenails, if she wants. Mainly, you're there to make sure the crew does not take any... liberties with her." Seeing that Ludwig's uncertainty still persisted, Francis added, "And she's meeting her appointed groom-to-be on the other side. She's probably young – fourteen or so, maidenhead intact."

Ludwig, in spite of himself, felt a slow, creeping warmth in his cheeks and frowned, diverting his gaze. Silly, that he might have thought there would be more to this, and yet – it just felt too _simple._

"This is a clean deal, I promise you. As righteous as it gets, and easy, fast. It's like you said, a babysitting job. Play the handmaiden/bodyguard for this mini lordess for a week, a month at the worst, breathe some sea breezes, eat some fish... and then you can retire."

Ludwig snorted. Retire. Right.

"Are you with me on this?"

Ludwig fingered the slip of paper in his hands, eyeing the dark, swirling cursive with unfocused eyes. Finally, he sighed. Folding the sheet into his palm, he nodded, slowly. "Yes, I think so, but give me until the morning?"

Francis eyed him, took a moment, and then acquiesced with a shrug. "Oui, of course. Sleep on it, but let me know as soon as possible. I'll stop by. You can keep the slip."

Ludwig nodded, noting Francis' departure with distracted indifference, his mind decidedly elsewhere – on ships, betrothals, aristocrats and gold. When he eventually conjured the will to draw himself back to the present, he looked first to his brother – whose eyes were also distant, turned in the unmistakeable direction of Francis' retreating figure.

Noting this, he quirked an eyebrow, calling, "Gilbert?" and his brother's head snapped immediately towards him, a bare hint of colour splashing his pale cheeks.

As if to counter it, Gilbert scowled. "You're taking the job," he accused. "I know it. You always do. That... He's always stealing you away! He's trying to separate us again! He–"

"I don't think it's me he's after – or you," Ludwig contended quietly, amusing himself with Gilbert's first befuddled – and then subsequently flabbergasted – response, mouth falling wordlessly agape and then drawing open and shut for several moments, as if swinging on a hinge.

"But... he... it's..." Gilbert pointed sharply. "_I,_" he emphasized, "would rather hang myself in the _gallows_ than suffer the plague of that man's affections. He's a bar rat! And a gossiper. Shameless, crude..." Gilbert shook his head. "You know what he deserves?" he asked, pausing for dramatic effect. "A wife. A waspish, brutal woman who will natter his eavesdropping ears off and then bludgeon him upside the head when he deserves it... which is more often than not. Not to mention–"

"Brother, are you sure you're not describing yourself?" Ludwig asked, holding back a smile as his brother's face flushed bright red. "But, I honestly don't see why you detest him so," he said, stepping out from his shaded nook and onto the dirt and cobblestone path that ran along the string of buildings and shops lining the seafront. He took off in the direction of their residence, Gilbert at his heels. Around them, the clamour of seafarers, merchants, dockworkers and the rabble mingled with the occasional resonating clang of a ship bell or gull cry to create a rich, but familiar mosaic of sounds. "He's not a bad man, for the most part."

"He takes you from me," Gilbert grunted.

"But one of us would have to leave regardless," Ludwig pointed out. "You know that. He just helps to bring to light some more... lucrative opportunities on occasion..."

"I know. The awesome part of me knows, but still... The even more awesome part of me... just... misses you," he muttered brusquely. The new gruffness in his tone poorly masked the emotion that his face betrayed all too clearly anyway. "You haven't been back all of three days, after a fucking _year_, and now you have to leave _again_..."

At this point, Gilbert's reluctant grimace reminded Ludwig with striking clarity of home life in years past – of how their father could get, of late nights or early mornings, jerking awake at the bang of the door and stumbling blearily out of bed, teddy bear gripped in one hand, Gilbert's wrist in the other, to let in a man who had either lost or forgotten his keys or simply couldn't muster the coordination to fit one into the lock, hard-pressed even to stand on his own two feet.

Father was not an angry, or even violent, drunk – he was just a sad and perpetual one. A good man, broken by the loss of the brothers' mother, his second wife, mere months before the birth of what would have been the third sibling. Father had coped by turning to the bottle – and eventually had _died _to the bottle – Gilbert by rebelling against depression with a fighting spirit and adopting a stalwartly optimistic worldview, and Ludwig... Ludwig stayed as long as he had to and ran away as soon as he was able to. He travelled, dedicating his life to foreign people and equally foreign causes, losing himself in a new existence each time he took up shield and sword for a new master.

Not without a small pang of guilt, he put a hand to his brother's shoulder and squeezed gently. Gilbert reached up and put his hand over Ludwig's, an unspoken apology passing between the two of them: For not always being there for each other, for Gilbert not being able to share Ludwig's childhood, for never being _all _that he could or should have been, even if the circumstances had made that damn near impossible. It wasn't enough, but the two brothers shared a small smile regardless – one that they both understood – and they traversed the rest of their march in silence.

* * *

**A/N **;; Canada and Iceland are appearing next chapter~ Yay! The next chapter was my first time writing Iceland, so I hope I was able to pull him off well. His personality was a little difficult to get down, but I think I got it!

**This story will be updated every Wednesday**_, though with the encouragement of reviews, I might be able to update twice a week. _

Stay awesome, guys.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N **;; Thanks for all the great responses last chapter, guys! I definitely wasn't expecting to get that many reviews – especially considering that this is framing a crack pairing. But it does have loyal fans, I suppose, I being amongst them.

Anyway, my love for IceCan and EngCan is kind of showing in this chapter – a lot. _Marriage _is mentioned throughout this chapter. Norway doesn't actually appear in this chapter, but he is mentioned more than once, and if I had written him in, there would have been hints of NorCan as well, because I just _loooove _my crack pairings. They are the loves of my life!

On a different note, I feel like I didn't get Iceland exactly on the dot with his character, especially when he first appears. I wasn't sure what role I wanted England to have, so I had to write a whole bunch of drafts for this chapter (which is why I didn't release it sooner, because I really did want to) but I finally decided on a sort of pirate!England. Kind of.

And Canada is really, really different compared to how I usually write him, mostly because in this story, he didn't grow up under France, England and America. This time, he grew up with the Nordics – or, two of them, at least. I firmly believe that if Norway had taken Canada as a colony instead of France, it would have very much influenced his character. I stand by my headcanon!

Characters mentioned in this chapter are as follows:  
**England - **Arthur Kirkland**  
****Canada - **Matthew Williams - _Who will be referred to as **Madeline** by characters who are not aware of his identity_  
**Iceland - **(Emil Steilsson)**  
Norway - **(Lukas Bondevik)**  
America - **Alfred F. Jones

* * *

**Synergy**

**…o…**

**Chapter Two**

**…o…**

* * *

_Shhwp, shhwp, shhhhhhwp…_

It was only the sound of horsehair bristles dragging through long, untangled waves of hair that filled the sunlit second-story bedroom of the Bondevik estate. Matthew, the room's only inhabitant save for the handmaiden standing behind him, sat as still as a doll, his fingers folded in his lap, legs tucked neatly together, deep blue eyes distant and unfocused.

"You know, you needn't be concerned, milady," the servant spoke up finally, shattering the peaceful calm of the room. "I'm sure His Lordship has found you a fine man. Lord Bondevik wouldn't do you wrong in that regard, not for his only daughter, and…"

As she tittered on, Matthew stopped listening. Thinking about his "betrothed" was the very last thing on his mind, and the chattering, nonsensical reassurances and condolences of an ignorant little handmaiden were not at all helping. She knew nothing of his situation – she had been hired after the "incident" had taken place. She hadn't a clue about how to comfort him.

But of course, that was part of the reason she had been hired. How could the great Lord Bondevik bear to let the result of his foolishness be revealed to the world? Let everyone know that he had let one of his sons – his youngest child and one of the heirs to his grand estate, fortune and legacy – be cursed, all thanks to his own selfish pride and stupidity?

No. It was better to lock away the proof of his mistakes. Better to teach Matthew to sing and dance and play the harp and move a fan as if he had been _born _a woman, and then marry him off to the first wealthy fool who would take him.

Under the rigidly disciplined, unreadable mask of apathy – one of the many things his oldest brother, Lukas, had taught him to perfect – he held in place at all times, a sneer lurked, but Matthew kept it well beneath the surface. It did no good to fight, no good to pout, no good to scream; only his two brothers ever heard of his woes, and only because they were the only souls on this earth that Matthew trusted well enough never to repeat his words, under any circumstances.

"…if you are ever in need of a listening ear, though–"

The door creaked, faintly, and the brush froze mid-stroke, her words clipping to a halt; Matthew didn't bother to turn. He already knew who was there. The lingering smell of opium and cigarette smoke blended together in a distinctively sweet scent told him everything he needed to know.

"Master Arthur, good evening, sir. I was just–"

"If I could have a moment with my cousin, please?" he interrupted smoothly.

Matthew drew in a shallow breath, his shoulders barely tensing under his dress and fingers tightening within his gloves.

"Oh, of course, of course, sir…" Her skirts rustled as she bent her head and curtsied, already heading towards the door. "Take as long as you like, Master Arthur…" Matthew listened with trepidation to the shuffle of her departure, and he prided on himself on not budging when the door clicked shut. He held his breath.

"My, my, my." Arthur clicked his tongue approvingly. "Don't you look lovely this evening, cousin dearest…"

With the handmaiden gone, Matthew could allow his sneer to surface, and he turned a narrow, warning glare on his elder cousin. "You know very well that I am _not_–" he began, his whisper-soft voice projecting loud and clear in the small room.

"Ah, tut-tut!" Arthur cut in, his smile cutting and vindictive, green eyes flashing with poorly concealed amusement. "Did I give you permission to speak?" he asked, and Matthew's gut coiled, his eyes narrowing further. "Such poor, poor manners for a lady of your age and stature, to interrupt a man, your _better_, in the midst of–"

Matthew jerked to a stand, skirts swirling to catch at his ankles when he spun to face his cousin. Once upon a time, he had been close with Arthur, and he could feel the memories of a shared childhood beginning to crop up in his mind. Arthur hadn't always been like this – Matthew distinctively remembered him being quite the rebellious child, though he was always ready to follow along with the latest trends and was eager to please. However, since Alfred, Arthur's younger brother and Matthew's preferred out of the two siblings, had up and abandoned the family's estate to Arthur exclusively, he had never really been the same. Then again, Alfred was always known for being able to bring out the worst in Arthur…

And, with this accident with the magic, Arthur's attitude towards Matthew had taken a drastic turn for the worst. Where he had been distant and grumpy before, he had now taken to reintroducing himself into Matthew's life and was instead getting much too _close _for Matthew's comfort. "If you think I am any less of a man now–" he began, but never got a chance to finish his sentence, the entirety of his body going rigid in an instant as Arthur snatched his outstretched hand, shackling his wrist like a toothpick in a vice.

"I think a lot of things, Matthew, love…" Arthur's words were low, abruptly deathly serious and far too close. When Arthur leaned in, shrinking what little distance lay between them until the heat of his breath was skittering up the length of his neck; Matthew's heart threw itself against the walls of his throat, panic and fury tripping over one another as clumsily as untrained dancers. The question, "Do you want to know what I'm thinking now?" was sort, teasing and amused.

Matthew shut his eyes, gritting his teeth as his stomach rolled. "Unhand me," he demanded.

"I believe I like you much better this way… cousin…" Arthur continued, heedless of his objections and Matthew half-tripped in his retreat as Arthur pushed to advance. "I'm thinking that you make such a beautiful woman, where you were once only a selfish, bothersome obstacle of a man…"

"Let… me–nn." Matthew let out a startled breath as his back hit the wall and his free hand jumped instantly to Arthur's chest, pushing; how he _hated _being the smaller one so suddenly, so unfairly. He hadn't had a problem overpowering Arthur before this damn curse. "You cannot possibly expect me to…" he trailed off, his muttered words falling on deaf ears as fear leapt into his throat.

"I don't see why you're struggling so…" Arthur mused aloud, dropping the hand still caging Matthew's wrist to the wall and drawing the other slowly up, tracing the generous curve of Matthew's hip and then dipping it along the waist. "You're to be married, love… Don't you think your new husband will have worst things to do with your pretty new body? You will have to become accustomed to this…"

Matthew jerked, but fighting the pin only earned him more weight, trapping him down. "I will _castrate_ you," he hissed, drawing his courage and attempting to put his hate into one single threat. However, despite his best efforts, he could tell that his voice was shaking.

"I don't think you will." Arthur's voice was playfully mocking.

"If I do not bleed on my wedding bed," Matthew said, "Father will hear of it, and I will see to it that the blame comes back to you…"

"Mm…" Arthur hummed thoughtfully. "See, now…" His fingers continued their trek, upwards, and Matthew had to bite his lip to keep back the sharp, undignified sound that threatened to escape. "I don't believe that's much of a concern, poppet, seeing as…"

As Arthur's hand found its way to the base of his breast, cupping, Matthew swung, whipping his body as best he could – and halfway dislodging himself in the process – in an attempt to at least bury an elbow in the other's nose. However, Arthur reacted too quickly, Matthew's dress limiting virtually every form of movement and in seconds, he found himself being shoved, hard, back against the wall once again. "Why, you–"

The bedroom door creaked open once again, and the two froze like thieves under the light of a lantern.

Emil stood there, narrowed eyes and twitching expression tracing over Matthew, who was tense, standing straight as a rail with his back flat to the wall, eyes burning metaphorical holes into Arthur; Arthur himself was half a foot away, arms as his sides and lips tightly pursed, chin held high. Emil frowned, concerned, though his expression shifted into something more angry as his eyes focused on Arthur.

"Arthur," he announced warily, voice deceptively stable. "Father wishes to speak to you."

"Of course," Arthur tried for a charming smile, but it did nothing to change Emil's glare. "I'll see him immediately," he said, already making his way towards the door, his steps fast and heavy. "Oh, and Matthew, I'd suggest you do a little thinking, love," he added, looking over his shoulder, green eyes flashing with something unreadable. The door slammed behind him.

A dry, uncomfortable silence filled the room, hanging between the two siblings – Matthew stared down at the floor, feet shuffling against the ground, while Emil stood, bristled, looking between the closed door and Matthew.

At long last, Emil lifted a hand, rubbing at the back of his neck as he eyed Matthew carefully. "Was I imagining that he was in an even more pleasant mood than usual?" he asked dryly. In response, Matthew meant to smile, or laugh, but at the last moment, the sound came out cracked, far too thin to be natural. Emil stepped forward. "Matt…"

"It's… fine. He's…" Matthew lifted a hand to his mouth, glancing away and straightening himself, pushing up off the wall. Finally, he nodded. "Yes, he was in a very 'good' mood, actually, for once," he said, meeting Emil's steady gaze, but his older brother's frown lingered, persistent.

"Matthew… What did he do?"

"He's just rather enjoying his promotion to acquire a third of our father's estate," Matthew explained, barely neutral, but he didn't object when Emil caught his wrist, watching with passive interest as the furrows between his pale eyebrows deepened as he drew a thumb over the forming bruises there.

"What the…" Emil's voice sounded strangled, barely restrained. "You can't let him–"

"You think I _let _him?" Matthew snapped, angry, snatching his hand back. "He was – I… if you hadn't…" he stopped himself as he got a good look at Emil's face. He swallowed, turning his head away. "If you hadn't arrived when you did…" Emil's hand taking hold of his own startled him – enough to make him turn back.

"I didn't mean…" Emil's lips pursed, a barely there blush dusting his cheeks. Matthew could see his thoughts as if they were written in dark ink across his face: Anyone could walk in, at any time, see them like this… and get the wrong idea.

Matthew let a small smile touch his lips as Emil turned over his words, reworking them. He sighed. "I'm still not used to seeing you like this…" his older brother said, letting a vague sweeping wave of his free hand indicate everything – from the slim waist and petite figure to the lower-back length hair and protruding chest – in a single go. "You used to be more than capable of taking care of yourself…"

"I can still…" Matthew paused at Emil's quirked eyebrow, his words stalled.

"I'm taller than you, Matt…" Emil said, a little smirk edging on his lips. Matthew's own expression thinned. "If you want, you may sleep with me."

Matthew's eyebrows hiked up to his hairline, amused, and Emil's face exploded in colour as he replayed his own words in his head. "That is, to share my – to sleep in my _room_," he clarified anxiously, "…so that… what I meant was… in case he… if he came to you in the night…"

"Ah," Matthew acknowledged, trying his hardest to hold back a smile. "Of course."

Emil nodded. "It's only for a night…"

_Oh, don't remind me… _Matthew shut his eyes. The ship to take him away set sail tomorrow, leaving him only one night. One night...

"You know… he is only acting out of spite," Emil said softly and Matthew looked up again. "He has always been jealous of you, always feeling that Father…" he frowned, "...always knowing how much Father favoured you over all the rest of us, including him."

Matthew released a sigh and reached up, catching his brother's cheek. "And always knowing how much I favoured you and Lukas, hmm?" he added. "Yes, I see your point." His hand dropped and he turned away once again, stepping away towards the open balcony. "And what will you do when he seizes part of the assets?"

He listened to Emil's shuffle behind him. "Actually…" he paused. "I was hoping… that… perhaps you might… eventually…"

Hand resting on the balcony's threshold, Matthew glanced back, a single eyebrow raised. "That I would what?" he asked rhetorically. "Overcome this? That our gypsies and shamans might find a cure? You know Lukas has already exhausted himself over this. And that's why he's gone today, too, right? It's a shame his own magic can't do a thing to help."

"That's where he always is." Matthew thought he could hear a small smile curving Emil's lips as he spoke. "He won't give up on this. And neither will I."

Matthew could feel his own smile growing. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "But…" He turned his eyes back to the open, eyes looking over the sweeping estate. His attention swept past the delicate, light burgundy curtains framing the balcony archway and on to the winding gardens, then to the great, towering gates that had kept them safely enclosed, as children, and finally beyond, to the endless hills, rolling on into the horizon. "Father has already chosen my fate for me." These were the lands he had grown up on, the ones he had been promised, the ones he had called home and the ones tied to every one of his waking memories. "We wouldn't want to let down my… betrothed."

Behind him, Emil scoffed, all the disgust both he and Matthew himself felt laced into it. He found it surprisingly comforting to hear. "Speaking of that, I saw to it to hire you an escort."

Matthew tensed. "An escort?" He turned. "What for? It's only a brief trip."

"I've never been rewarded for trusting in the good of men's hearts. Think of him of a handmaiden, if you prefer."

"Emil…"

"It's only one man; you don't have to worry about having a parade at your heels. I only thought…" he hesitated. "It's just… You cannot blame me for wanting to look out for your honour, right?"

Some of the tension Matthew felt eased, but his frown remained regardless. "Um, so, listen…" he started, though his words were weak. He swallowed and put more force behind his words the second attempt, pausing as he felt a knot of guilt form in his throat, debating whether to voice his long-since established decision. "I…" he began. "I never… intended to land at the final port…"

Emil frowned, confused. "You plan to run away?" He shook his head. "There will be few, if any stops, between here and your destination. When did you…"

Unable to watch the comprehension dawn, Matthew looked back to the window, leaning his weight on the archway, suddenly achingly tired. "I thought I would finally try my hand at swimming. High time I learned, hmm?"

There were five, aching seconds of stillness.

And the full weight of his words settled in. "Matthew!" Footsteps approached rapidly, and he turned, but not fast enough to avoid his brother's snatching grab, catching his arm.

"Emil, let me–"

"No!" It was so rare to see his brother get truly angry, never mind release his anger, but this was a hurt, panicked anger. It tore Matthew's heart to face it. "You can't–" Emil choked on his words. "–I won't let you! I'll come with you! I'll follow you, I'll take you anywhere! Just… just don't… don't… There has to be some _other _way…"

The breath Matthew drew was ragged, far coarser in his throat than he intended, and he shook his head. "I can't _live _like this, brother," he protested. "I can't be somebody's wife. I won't…"

"Matthew–"

"I'm not _marrying _myself," Matthew's voice rose with each step of his rebuttal, raising far above the normal volume of his whisper, "to some strange, foreign, _child _a sea's journey away and spending my life sitting on pretty cushions, weaving tapestries, playing music, forcing out tittery, awful laughter at terrible jokes, entertaining guests and _spreading my legs_ like a good, well-bred whore!" He spat his words, fist clenched at his side, stomping out each word for emphasis.

"Matthew!"

"Everything that was ever promised to me was _taken _from me! I have _no future _now. Do you understand what that means for me? I'm a woman. I'm considered useless now!" Matthew's breath was coming in quickly as he finished, his eyes stinging with bitter tears. Goddamn hormones…

"Then run away!" Emil insisted. "Go… anywhere!"

"And do _what_, hmm?" Matthew asked. "Sell myself? How am I to make a living like this – as a runaway _girl _with no name and no fortune to speak of?"

"Then I'll run away with you!" Emil offered. "We can go far away, where no one will recognize us. I will…" he paused for a moment. "I will _marry _you, if I have to…"

"You'd do that? Go celibate, your entire life?" Matthew asked, his tone flat, disbelieving.

Emil sighed, a heated blush beginning to form on his face. "Matt, tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it. You can't expect to tell me you don't plan on living to see the other shore once you step on that ship and then still have me let you board it? I'd rather lock you away for the rest of your days."

Matthew eyed his older brother. "So… what do you want me to say? Would you believe me if I promised you I would make my best effort to not accidentally trip over the rail in the middle of the night? Or should I submit to having myself bound to the mast and–"

"We need to _lift _your _curse_! That's all!"

"Oh, yes, that is _all_, seeing as that has proven so simple thus far…"

"It's magic!" Emil snapped. "All magic has a means of being reversed. We just have to find it…"

"With Father already having given up on me? He's stopped funding the shamans, Emil, months ago. Our best mages could do nothing. He found me a _husband_. He wants rid of me." Matthew shook his head. "He's ashamed of everything to do with it, and the stars know that Arthur isn't about to help the competition…"

Emil glowered. "But it was by no fault of your own! It's Father's problem that he can't stay away from dark magic and he didn't keep his deal!"

"He didn't think he could through with his promise to–"

"But he did! And now he doesn't even have the decency to set you straight–"

"Father has never prided himself on his decency, Emil. It's cheaper this way." Matthew snorted. "Actually, I believe he's making a profit. Wedding our families, binding fortunes…"

"He won't make a profit if you _die_!" Emil snapped.

"Mm… that part… I can't say I regret that…" Matthew muttered.

Emil groaned. "Matt… _please_…"

"Are my things together?" Matthew asked abruptly, throwing their previous conversation to the wind.

His older brother sighed tiredly. "I believe the servants finished packing the rest of them this afternoon…"

"And of Kumajirou?"

"I'll make sure that he is amongst your bags before you depart."

"See that you do."

"Matthew–"

Matthew leaned up, catching his hand behind his brother's neck and pushing onto his toes to place a kiss on his cheek. "I _will _think about it," he promised. "I did rather enjoy living, after all… once upon a time."

* * *

**A/N **;; Okay, I had to edit my 'random note', because one of my reviewers corrected me. Without doing any such research, I accidentally claimed that prostitution is _completely _legal in Canada, which it definitely isn't. Some research told me that most acts associated with it make it illegal, but I believe the act itself is not a criminal offense if not done on the street. And if I am wrong again, someone please correct me again.

This just gives me further reason to use Canada as my town bicycle. (Just kidding.)


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N **;; Are there hints of FrPru in this chapter? Yes. Will it go beyond this point? Um, I have no idea. We'll see how it goes from here…

Iceland's speech is so… _refined _in this chapter. I don't like it, but that's the way I have to write him, because that's the way young masters speak when not in the privacy of their own estates. D:

One of my reviewers asked if Prussia was strong, too, just like Germany… Well, this chapter should answer your question.

Also, thank you guys so much for all the fabulous reviewers. Here's a chapter early for you, in thanks.

* * *

**Synergy**

**…o…**

**Chapter Three**

**…o…**

* * *

As per his usual habits, Ludwig rose an hour or so before the break of day, soft hints of dawn just starting to bleed into the rich navy of the night sky, diluting it with softer, paler blues along the horizon.

He dressed quickly and efficiently, skin still prickly with a morning chill by the time he stepped out the front door, and his breath made foggy, white clouds in the dark air. Soft, wet shoots of grass folded under his bare feet as he moved further from the house until he had deemed he had enough space.

Then, he began to move.

Slow, empty-handed sets at first – stretching and warming muscles taut and bunched from a full night's sleep – familiar, habitual training routines, learned, memorized, and drilled into him by a much younger Gilbert so that now, his body knew each one as well as it knew how to walk or breathe. Once he no longer felt the chill, he turned to faster sets – solo sparring against a phantom opponent, then multiple opponents.

Every form stressed a different aspect – some self defense, others the defense of another, and still others pure offense – each one reflective of the time and conditions under which he had learned it.

If nothing else, time and travel had taught Ludwig to fill many roles, from serving as a guide and sentry for wealthy caravans through the more treacherous sections of popular trade routes, to bodyguarding for diplomats, lords, barons, and even, on occasion, royalty. He had been at times a soldier, an attendant, and a convoy – but never an assassin – a warrior, a protector, and a killer – but never of an unready opponent.

Halfway into an open-handed defense form, the sun already nearly free of the horizon and painting the grass with long swaths of pink and orange – catching in dewdrops like tiny jewelled prisms – a soft set of footsteps alerted him to the arrival of company.

Outwardly, he showed no sign of acknowledging it, continuing on through his drill without pause – but his focus had shifted completely. His body moved by muscle memory, his mind on the shadow of a figure in the corner of his eye and his ears trained to the falls of whisper-light footsteps, softer than a sough over a still sea.

Ready, Ludwig caught the first strike with an open palm, both diverting the attack and opening his opponent up, leaving him weak on defense and wide spread for an attack, but Gilbert knew him well and sidestepped not a moment too soon, ducking in the next second to shorten up the distance and even the odds, at least at some level.

There was no question who had the size and range advantage – Ludwig towering at least a foot over his brother and measuring nearly half again as broad in the shoulders – but close combat eliminated range as a factor, focusing the fight, concentrating it.

They quickly adopted a rhythm, relearning each other's habits and adjusting accordingly, like familiar dance partners reintroduced to one another after an extended hiatus. Gilbert took the opportunity to test his younger brother's progress, leaving the pace mostly up to him, but pushing on occasion against the basic boundaries and reassessing former areas of weakness.

When the sun was twice over its diameter from the horizon, the oranges and pinks of morning elapsed by the full, bright yellow of day, Ludwig's movements began to betray the first signs of fatigue: A thin, glistening sweat breaking out over his brow, his reaction time slowing a fraction and his offense beginning to lose its edge, growing more brash and less refined.

"How long," he asked, making a broad, sweeping strike – easily redirected, "would it take you to drop me, brother?" and Gilbert blinked. A second and a half later, Ludwig let out a low gasp of air and grunted in the next moment as grass at his back knocked the air out of him.

Above, Gilbert stilled and stepped back, watching as his brother shut his eyes and groaned, making no move to get up just yet.

"Like that?" he asked, smirking.

Below, Ludwig opened one, narrowed eye.

Gilbert simply shrugged at Ludwig's lack of response and offered a hand – which he took. "You're tired," he said, pulling his younger brother to his feet, "and defense has never exactly been your forte… Your stances are much better, though. Have you been practicing?"

"Of course." Ludwig's lips pursed into a thin line. "Anything else?"

Gilbert quirked an eyebrow. "Well, sure. You're good at falling down, for one," he said, earning a twitch of a smile and a hard shove to the shoulder. "You're unpredictable," he continued, more seriously. "When you slow down and tire, your moves become much easier to read, but at your peak, your spontaneity is one of your greatest assets. Your willingness to overturn your own strategies mid-throw forces your opponent to always keep one eye open and never get too comfortable."

Ludwig considered this, looking oddly doubtful. Finally, he shook his head. "But you were able to read me like a book," he argued, "before I hardly did anything."

At that, Gilbert snorted, grinning as he rolled his shoulders and turned away, shaking any remaining tension from his arms. "Of course," he replied. "You're my little brother. Who would I be if I couldn't read my own brother?"

Ludwig opened his mouth to respond, but stopped as he noted an approaching figure on the horizon. Instead, he said, "Your prince approaches," tone neutral, but telling, and on cue, Gilbert tensed, head snapping forward and eyes narrowing at the figure.

A moment later, he scowled, tilting his head back and sending the dark look up to the last lingering wisp of pink clouds above, as if the heavens themselves were to blame for his every misfortune – including Francis himself. "Don't fucking call him that," he muttered broodingly, and Ludwig, rather less dramatically, shrugged.

"Very well," he agreed. "Your–"

"He's not _my _anything," Gilbert snapped. "He's a damned pest, and a snoop, and a rat, and–"

The patter of hooves brought a forced end of Gilbert's rant as the aforementioned 'pest' reined his horse in to a hurried stop before them, and Ludwig decided in a moment that, for the record, Francis looked even _more _out of sorts than usual. With one glance at Gilbert's expression, however, his mood noticeably brightened and he raised both eyebrows with a tired grin.

"Talking about me already, mes amis?" he teased.

Before Gilbert could snap a word in edgewise, Ludwig filled in. "Yes, actually," he said, keeping his voice flat and impartial, dissuading anything other than strictly business talk. "But I must admit, I didn't expect you this early. Did something come up?"

Quickly, Francis grew serious. "Well… oui… I suppose you could say that," he admitted, brows drawing together as he dismounted.

It didn't take long to get to business.

And ten minutes later, Gilbert was not pleased.

"_Now?" _he demanded. "You said he had at least an entire–"

"I said he could _sleep _on it," Francis cut in smoothly, "and while I did think he had a bit more time, there was a miscommunication. The family _definitely _intends to send Miss Bondevik off today, and it also seems as though they rather thought he had already decided and confirmed, so…"

"It's fine," Ludwig said, ignoring Gilbert's growing glower and rising from the table they had settled at. "I can be ready within an hour."

"Bien, bien… c'est parfait," Francis assured, looking truly relieved and stringing a hand back through his wavy hair. "I'll notify– oh! Ludwig?" Said man turned back for a moment. "One of the masters, the youngest of the brothers, I believe – the one who actually arranged to hire you – requested that he have a word with you in person, before you meet her…"

"Would he prefer to see me here, or at the docks?"

"I'll have him come here," Francis said, and when Ludwig nodded, he gave a weary smile. "Thank you, by the way, for taking this, despite the notice, and…"

When he didn't continue, Ludwig shrugged. "I'd be a fool not to."

"Indeed you would," Francis nodded. "Very well. I will see you when I do," he said by way of farewell, offering a ghost of a salute before heading for the door.

Ludwig was halfway to his room when Gilbert, too, stood – and rather abruptly at that – following in the direction of Francis' exit. Ludwig paused, calling back to his brother. "Gilbert…" His older brother stilled where he stood. "Where are you going?"

Gilbert however, regained his pace quickly and reached the door. "The Awesome Me is going to have a word with Francis. I'll take Monika and be back quickly enough."

Though briefly tempted, Ludwig decided not to bother with further questions – for the sake of time – and nodded. Monika was the younger of their two horses, and it wouldn't hurt her to stretch her legs. Putting it behind him, Ludwig focused on packing – as light as possible.

* * *

Nearly fifty minutes later, the morning sun well into the sky, Ludwig stood by the stables, working through the final selection of weapons to take, when he first picked up the sound of approaching hooves. It turned out that he had finished just in time, then.

Ludwig's first impression of the young Master Bondevik was that he was just that: Young – younger, perhaps, than Ludwig himself. His second thought was that he was beautiful, and as the boy dismounted, landing neatly beside his horse and barely kicking up dust, Ludwig wondered if the family held some lingering traces of elfish or dragon decent in their bloodline.

"Mister Beilschmidt?"

Ludwig lifted his head, nodding. "Ludwig, milord," he replied smoothly, but was startled as the boy held out his hand.

"Master Emil Bondevik of Ire…" he greeted, and after another second's worth of hesitation, Ludwig returned the gesture, extending his hand; it swallowed the boy's, and made the young Bondevik's skin look awfully pale. "It's a pleasure to meet you. The man to whom I'll be entrusting my sister's life to, are you not?"

"I– yes, milord."

The young Bondevik seemed a bit amused. His voice was dry and neutral, perfectly imperial and balanced, but his eyes sparked with something else. "You needn't fret," his employer assured. "Usually, I would not trust Mr. Bonnefoy's judgement as far as I can throw him, but you seem capable enough. However, I did come upon some information as of late which I thought I best deliver to you, in person…"

Ludwig waited patiently.

His employer drew a breath, and then, "My sister…" he began, carefully, "…is not entirely pleased with the situation she's being sent off to – which is understandable, seeing as few women are comfortable with arranged marriages – however, I have reason to believe that she is more displeased with it than I had originally assumed and I thought you should be warned that…" He hesitated, again, obviously picking his words with care. "She… may prove to be as much of a danger to herself as any of the other members of the crew…"

Ludwig blinked. He thought his sister would attempt to commit _suicide_? He supposed it wasn't unheard of, but the thought that a family would push its children so hard as to make them so desperate for escape…

"I care, of course, that she reaches her destination," the young man continued, "but I would have you know that if it came to a choice between her life and the completion of your mission to deliver her, I would rather hear news of her disappearance than of her death far more."

_**Don't **__let my sister die, is what he means, _Ludwig thought. _Understood. _And he said as much.

"Good." The young man reached for his reigns. "Oh," he paused, "and Mister Beilschmidt?"

"Sir?"

His employer mounted – impressively fluidly, even more so considering the size ratio of man to horse; the beast was absolutely huge – and Ludwig waited, expecting a _'Take care of her for me' _or _'See to it that you keep her well out of trouble.' _Instead, the young man smiled, something verging on mischievous dancing in his eyes for the first time in their encounter. "A word of advice, as a token of appreciation in advance for your efforts…"

Ludwig resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow.

"My sister is… an interesting character. Keep this in mind while you are attending to her. She is very delicate. Handle her with care." Now, the amusement was clear in the boy's eyes, a little smirk crossing his face as he looked down at Ludwig, appraising him one final time.

Ludwig felt his lip twitch, of its own accord. "Noted, sir," he promised, and with a quick nod, a click of a reigns and tap of the heel, the boy was off.

* * *

Alone again, it wasn't long before Ludwig finished his prep, and not long after that he made his way towards the docks. There, he spent the better part of the morning familiarizing himself with the crew, the ship, and aiding in the loading process of last minute goods. It was past high noon before his charge finally made her entrance – and made an entrance she did.

"…and then all we'll 'ave ta do is git the last o' those there–" 'Woods' as the man had instructed Ludwig to call him, cut off mid-sentence, and the both of them shared a subtle glance before laying their eyes on the sudden added ruckus in the streets.

Not one, not two, but _three _carriages approached, the first and third obviously dedicated to luggage and the middle, presumably, actually carrying the "mini lordess," as Francis had deemed her, herself.

"Well I'll be…" Woods folded his arms, sun-chapped lips drawing back to revealed a crooked, toothy grin, "…if that ain't a parade fer yer princess I know I ain't never gonna see one…" And indeed, even without the bundles within, the carts themselves vied for among the finest quality design and craftsmanship Ludwig had seen – and _that _meant something.

At least half his mind dedicated to the thought that they would never be able to get everything in those carts into the remaining space in the bunkers of the ship – and certainly not before at least another half of the evening was gone – Ludwig descended the gangplank.

How could one _little _girl own _so _much?

Granted, many lords' daughters went through wardrobes full of gowns, most of which destined only ever to be worn once, but at thirteen or fourteen, surely it would be a waste of time and money to spend so much on so many dresses, when she would only outgrow them in a few short years' time?

While the other two stepped closer to the stern – to be unloaded up the rear plank and into the last of the space in the hull – the middle carriage drew up all but to immediately in front of him. No attendant saw to the door. The handle turned, the door pushed out, and–

Ludwig's first thought on laying eyes on his charge was that Mistress Madeline Bondevik was _not _fourteen years old; Francis had lied (or at least had not done his research). His second thought was that she had tiny feet (and how did women ever manage to _walk _in shoes like those?). His third was that she looked exactly like her brother, save for the slight differences in hair and eye colour.

Light, thick waves of sunshine blonde hair fought to spill past her shoulders as she first leaned out, framing her face, as pale as fresh snow. Silk gloves covered long, narrow fingers that gripped back multiple layers of thick, heavy-looking lace skirts as she worked to find footing. She had trim hips, a tiny waist, a modest but healthy bosom, narrow shoulders, a long neck – and then she looked up, and Ludwig found himself pinned under deep blue, nearly violet, eyes.

He couldn't have said how long she held his stare, but he knew he immediately felt uncomfortably like an open text, bared for harsh scrutiny as she studied him – she drew her eyes over him slowly, as if mapping details, judging him, weighing him. Then, sharply, as if drawn from a trance, her lips pursed, her lashes dropped the barest of fractions, eyebrows rising and her chin tilting just a notch higher. When she held out her hand, smile gentle but eyes expectant, it took Ludwig an embarrassingly long amount of time to remember what to do with it.

The white silk of her glove was soft in his calloused, rough fingers as he helped her down.

"Mistress Bondevik–" he began, but was cut off by her voice, soft and gentle, barely above a whisper.

"Madeline will do just fine," she said, but apparently Ludwig's unease showed, because she gave a little sigh a moment later. "Alright then. 'Miss' or 'milady', if you must…"

"Yes, Mistr– miss," Ludwig corrected himself, and his charge hummed, thoughtful.

Then, "You _are _you brother's idea of an escort, right?" she asked, and Ludwig blinked.

"Yes, milady, I would assume so."

"I see…" she muttered. "Um… well?" she pressed, looking towards the boarding plank, and he frowned, not quite sure what she was after.

Madeline smiled, though it seemed a bit more forced this time. "Will you lead me onboard yourself and trust that I will not fall and drown before this wretched journey begins, or go aid in attending to my baggage instead?" she asked, tilting her head. _Oh, yes, _Ludwig thought. He could see the resemblances between the two Bondevik siblings he had met today. "Have you reached your decision?" Her voice was sugary sweet, her smile feigning patience, but her eyes were narrowed and watching him as he held out his arm.

"I'll show you to your cabin then, shall I?" he offered, allowing himself a brief, momentary pinch of pride at the faint, startled splash of colour this brought about in her cheeks.

Yes, this journey was going to be an interesting one indeed.

* * *

**A/N **;; Feedback is worshipped, guys.

So… Canada is referred to as a female in this chapter. Um, what? Were any of you guys confused by that? Remember that the reason for this is that this chapter is from Germany's point of view, and so far, he doesn't have a clue of Canada's actual identity. When the POV goes back to Canada in the next chapter, it will go back to using a masculine qualifier.

Does it feel weird to think of Canada as having the last name of (fandom) Norway? I think it does, but I couldn't think of a way to incorporate Canada's original canon last name in his title. Sorry! Perhaps I'll be able to remove it later in the story, but I haven't planned it that far ahead yet. Time will tell, I suppose, in that aspect.

Anyway, thank you _so _much for all the wonderful reviews thus far! I never expected this to have so many people following it, never mind that I managed to convert some people into actually liking this pairing. That is so amazing for me. You guys are all so awesome, just like Prussia! XD

And speaking of Prussia… oh where did he go…? ;)

Stay awesome, guys.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N **;; Can I just say something right here, right now?

_**I love all of you guys!**_You guys are so undoubtedly awesome! So many reviews… I was barely expecting one for this story, never mind twenty! You guys are the best readers ever, no joke.

So, in thanks, here's a longer-than-usual chapter! It's the longest one yet! (And it's even updated early! How lucky! ...though mostly because I don't have time to update it tomorrow. But disregard that and enjoy your chapter!)

* * *

**Synergy**

**…o…**

**Chapter Four**

**…o…**

* * *

From behind dark, burgundy curtains, Matthew watched the world outside pass by with no undue trepidation: Grass and cobblestones at first with a few sparse trees and mountains in the far, far distance, then more cottages, and finally the more bustling clamour of concentrated peasantry as they entered the port city. Alone in the privacy of the coach, he allowed himself to fidget – smoothing anxiously over his skirts, tugging at the lace of his gloves and the fastenings on his bodice, constantly shifting in his seat to resituate himself.

It was a habit he had developed as a young man and, now that he was donned in women's clothing, it only made it worse.

His clothes were tight in all the wrong places, heavy, complicated, easily damaged, and ridiculously difficult to get in to and out of. Corsets were the worst, but tight, pinching, laced heels were a close second. Even the undergarments were ghastly – layers upon layers upon layers of sheer fabric and lace – more often than not white and bothersome all around.

As soon as the ship made it out of dock and far enough away not to be glimpsed by 'proper' society, Matthew promised himself, all of it would go. Emil had agreed to assure that some of his old clothes made it into his store of things, and shock factor or no, he fully intended to 'cross-dress' and don men's clothes again the soonest the situation permitted it. It wasn't as if he had to dress up and 'look pretty' for the crew.

His gloved hands began to tap out a restless beat along the windowsill.

He wondered what it would be like, to be on the sea again after all these years. He hadn't boarded a ship since he was a young boy, when he, Emil and Lukas had been shipped off to relatives an ocean away, while their father dealt with less than pleasant political matters. He remembered the journey fondly, remembered the land they had docked on to be cold and snowy, but he had felt just as at home there as he had in his own land. It was a fresh change, where the concepts of royalty and status and money didn't matter as much. The way respect was earned there was through the things you achieved, not the things you were born with. Perhaps he could somehow get back to that land? He couldn't remember the name of it, but surely somehow would recognize it if he described it to them?

Maybe his escort would know? Emil had told him that the man was a world traveller, so he had probably visited the land at least once. He wondered what the sea air would taste like, what kind of things he would see on a wide open ocean, and whether it would storm. A storm would be preferable – it might be easier to sneak off when all the crewmen were busy.

He tried not to think about what he was leaving behind: About his brothers and his father, or about his curse and his land. He tried not to think about the child on the other side of the sea, waiting for him, and he _tried _not to wonder what it would be like, to lift his feet over a varnished rail, to open his hands, fall, and feel the water swallow his body.

Would it be dark? Would it end quickly? Would he panic? Feel remorse, at the very last second? Would he _regret _it, after it was too late?

When he caught himself musing about whether or not he might perhaps be better off donning a set of skirts before he jumped, to assure that he sank faster, Matthew snatched his hand back into his lap and scowled. Surely, there were better ways to entertain one's thoughts in the last hours of a life?

The carriage slipped to a halt, saving him from chasing that thought further.

Drawing a breath, Matthew pushed his skirts around to allow him to shift, turning the handle. Naturally, as soon as he leaned out, his hair attempted to fall forward in his face to blind him and his skirts rustled to tangle about his ankles and trip him. He swiftly caught them, thankful that his luck hadn't kicked in and caused him to fall face first to the ground, lifting them as he searched for footing and his supposed escort at the same time. He lifted his head, fully ready to lower himself down from his carriage without the need of aide, when–

_Oh._

At first, the only thing Matthew could think was that his brother had hired him a giant.

The man was huge – not overweight, or overly burly, but simply _massive_ – towering easily a head taller than Lord Bondevik himself, his shoulders broader than Matthew's more than twice over, and his waist at least that much thicker. He wore a thin, beige cotton tunic with an unblanched vest and trousers which did little to hide a wide barrel chest and arms that looked as though they could snap a man's spine faster than a butcher could a chicken's.

His face was well-defined and incredibly masculine – there was no chance of this man passing as a woman in any circumstances – slightly tanned from working in the sun for so many hours. His eyes, so blue and so focused, were resting on him, and observing him in much the same way as Matthew was observing his escort. His jaw was chiselled, square and strong, though his nose tilted off at an angle, implying that it had been broken once before – or perhaps multiple times, even.

Realizing he was staring, Matthew mentally shook himself back to his senses, and tilted his chin up, letting his eyes relax and lifting his eyebrows as he held a hand out, expectantly. It took the man a moment to catch on. When he did, though, Matthew fought the urge to swallow as his fingers disappeared in the lager man's; he remembered only just in time to step down.

"Mistress Bondevik–"

"Madeline will do just fine," Matthew interrupted, half his attention still devoted to the hand that had yet to release his. The last thing he wanted was constant reminders of his femininity. If he could only persuade the man to simply call him by his first name… or, at least, the feminine version of it.

However, given the guard's immediately uncomfortable expression, Matthew sensed that that, for now at least, was completely out of the question. He let out a sigh. "Alright then. 'Miss'," he consented to compromise, "…or 'milady', if you must…"

That, thankfully, seemed to pacify him, and the man nodded. "Yes, Mistr– miss," he said, and Matthew hummed.

"You _are_ my brother's idea of an escort, I presume?" he asked, needing to be absolutely sure, and his attendant blinked.

Then, "Yes, milady," he answered. "I would assume so."

"I see…" Matthew waited a moment, but then pressed, "Um… well?"

The man's brow furrowed, puzzled. Matthew pulled a smile, chanting the words Emil had pushed into his head before he had left, 'be nice, be kind, be sweet', over and over again in his head. "Will you lead me onboard yourself and trust that I will not fall and drown before this wretched journey begins, or go aid in attending to my baggage instead?"

That didn't come out exactly the way he had wanted it to, Matthew thought, biting the inside of his cheek in yet another nervous habit. Honestly, Matthew didn't particularly _want _to board on his own via that gangplank; he despised walking in heels enough as it was, and rickety, uneven pieces of wood that moved when the ocean rolled would not likely make the experience any easier. He decided to leave that little piece of information out, however, and cocked his head. "Have you reached your decision?"

The abruptness with which the other put out his arm startled him, and Matthew hadn't quite _expected _to be lead exactly like that, but, "I'll show you to your cabin then, shall I?" the man was offering and so, ignoring – as best he could – the unexpected tickle of heat creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks, Matthew took the man's arm.

He felt as solid as he looked.

As he followed the man's lead up the dock, Matthew felt unnervingly like an ornament – a ribbon draped over a tree or a paper swan perched on a boulder – and he would have put money on a bet that if he collapsed, then and there, the man wouldn't have hardly had to budge to sustain the full of his weight. It was humbling – in a frustrating and erring on humiliating way. He took solace in the thought that either of his brothers, too, would have looked comparatively small at this man's side.

They exchanged not a word after that, the man showing him his "cabin" – a small, tightly enclosed space which Matthew felt sorely tempted to more aptly refer to as a cabin_et_, but held his tongue – and he spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening first policing the unloading and packing of his things (mostly siphoning out which ones he wanted to keep accessible and which could be stowed away more permanently), and then arranging the things he had selected – Kumajirou, the plush bear he had brought back from his first and only trip to the mystery land, obviously being amongst them – in what little space he had.

No one came to see him off, Emil having already bid him a long farewell, the very same with Lukas before he had left on his last trip. Neither Arthur nor his father had any interest in the manner, and Matthew was perfectly content with the company of himself (and Kumajirou), counting the grooves in the planks above his head.

* * *

He hadn't realized that he had fallen asleep until he woke – to _loud _voices.

"–are you _doing _here? How did you get on?"

Matthew stirred, brows furrowing in half sleep as an unfamiliar voice seeped in through his door.

"You can't be here, Gil–"

And why was his bed so hard?

"Oh, no? Well, guess what, Lutz? I _am _here, and I'm not leaving!" A second voice spoke up, equally unfamiliar and at least twice as loud as the first, but older, and Matthew scowled, rolling onto his side with every intention of pulling something over his head – only to wince with regret as that pinched a muscle which apparently _hadn't _gotten a good night's sleep.

What _time _was it?

"What are you going to do, throw me off the ship?" the second voice demanded.

_Ship?_

"Feed me to the sea monsters? We can't turn back, and you can't make me–"

Realization hit hard, and for a moment Matthew felt sick, his stomach revolting, his head swirling dizzily and his pulse pounding between his temples.

_Right. The ship._

He was not at home, he was on the sea, a _woman_, headed to his own personal hell served ripe on a platter with only a couple of filthy seaman for company in his last hours of–

He rolled onto his stomach, scrunching his eyes shut.

"Come on, Lutz, it's not that bad…"

"Not that–? I already have someone to babysit, Gilbert! I don't have time to watch you, too–"

"Who said you have to?" the second voice sounded indignant. "The Awesome Me doesn't need to be taken care of, Ludwig."

"Gil–"

"No! Just no... Listen…"

Matthew stopped listening and took a breath, a different sort of frown in place as he forced down his initial upsurge of nausea and pushed up, onto his elbows and then into a sitting position, careful not to bump his head. It did no good to panic. He needed to breathe, relax – he shoved a hand back through his hair, pushing it from his face.

_Ludwig, Ludwig, Ludwig…_

"Ludwig…" he tested the name aloud, feeling the weight of it on his tongue. The name of his guard, he assumed, but who was the man he was arguing with?

…_Gilbert, maybe?_

_Yes, probably._

When his fingers came upon a knot, Matthew started a search for a brush.

A friend, perhaps? Someone close to him, in any case. A relative, more likely, he decided. They'd obviously known each other well if childhood experiences and babysitting had come into play.

Locating what he was looking for, Matthew took up his brush and began working patiently through the few kinks that had developed in his sleep thanks to his lack of preparation (usually, he braided his hair before lying down) and once finished, he stood. He curled his bare feet against the floorboards. Shoes, or no shoes? That was the question. He had fallen asleep in a dress – how on Earth he managed _that_, he couldn't begin to fathom – and didn't plan to change out of it immediately, so for the moment, he opted for barefoot, taking the steps out.

It was dawn.

Matthew lifted a hand, squinting and blinking as his eyes adjusting to the sudden light. He had slept through the _night_?

When was the last time that had happened?

"–and besides, I'm not a stowaway…"

"Oh? Would you like to explain that one to me?"

"I spoke with Francis…"

"Francis _helped _you–"

"Of course Francis helped me!" the older man snapped, and Matthew took to inspecting him. He had pale skin, much like himself, but he had the hair to match, snowy and utterly bleached of colour. His eyes were a bright red, unlike a pair of eyes Matthew had ever seen before in all his travels. He looked to be about Lukas' age, but a bit taller, like Matthew had been before the curse had shrunk his height. But it seemed that Ludwig towered over everyone, older brothers included. "You know that–"

"Gilbert–"

"Anyway," the older man – Gilbert – persisted, "I've been hired by th– oh, well, wow…" Gilbert's sentence cut off midway as his eyes landed, for the first time, on Matthew. Matthew himself stilled as Gilbert stared at him. The next moment, he broke out into a grin. "And a _very _lovely morning to you, too, missus," he greeted, cheeky.

Beside him, with his back still turned to Matthew, Ludwig sighed. "Good morning, Miss Bondevik," he said without turning around, making Matthew wonder if he had known he was here the entire time. "I trust you slept well?"

Matthew waited. Only when the man turned to face him did he pull a polite little smile and answered, meeting his guard's gaze head on. "Passably so…" He nodded towards the shorter of the two brothers. "May I be granted an introduction?"

He watched as a frown formed on Ludwig's face. "That, ahh, unfortunately, is my–"

"Gilbert Beilschmidt!" Gilbert cut in. "The older, much more awesome brother of ol' muscles over here," he flicked a thumb in Ludwig's direction. "And I must say that it is a _pleasure _to meet you, milady." He winked and smirked.

"Mm…" Matthew eyed him, showing a little grin of his own. Gilbert was definitely a very self-assured man, that was for certain. "Yes, a pleasure to meet you as well." He returned his attention to Ludwig, ignoring Gilbert's little pout, but didn't bother to resist the urge to laugh. "What are they serving for breakfast?" he asked. "Food, or are we to feast on each other's innards and such?"

Ludwig's lips pursed, eyebrows rising in surprise, while Gilbert's eyes grew noticeably rounder and the smirk wormed its way back onto his face. He laughed long and hard, a hissed chuckle that sent shivers down Matthew's spine, motioning for Matthew to follow after him as he showed him towards where breakfast was being served.

"I like you, little lady," Gilbert said to her as they walked. "You remind me of someone the Awesome Me used to know."

Matthew elbowed him without thinking, only making Gilbert laugh more. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered. "I feel the same way."

* * *

In the hours that followed, Matthew found himself frustratingly full of idle time.

A ship, apparently, truly _wasn't _a place for a woman – what with most of the men engaged in tasks of one sort of another and the idle ones talking more or less privately amongst themselves – and he ended up spending a good deal of time by himself or with Gilbert, who was just as bored as he was. He sat on deck for most of the day – because, contrary to what his fair skin suggested, he much preferred the sun and nature to be cooped up indoors – and watched.

It was a modest crew, though and well before noon Matthew had familiarized himself with the faces and occupations of virtually every member – if not their names – from the captain and first mate to the cook and wiry cabin boy, only to find himself bored again by the end.

The sun was high in the sky when he received an unlikely saviour from the drudgery in none other than Gilbert himself.

The pale man, very obviously bored with the work Ludwig had assigned for him, off-handedly challenged one of the deck hands to a spar – friendly and light – a simple test of combat technique with small, wooden practice blades to warm the muscles the pass the time. What started as a two person event, though, soon escalated to a string of matches, eventually blossoming into a group event as more and more of the crew joined in, either to face off or just to watch, and _that _Matthew found much more preferable to idle sitting.

It had been much too long since he had last engaged in any form of proper combat, and observing it – evaluating the men's various techniques and wide range of skill levels – while not nearly so much fun as participating, was entertaining, nonetheless.

Then, bets started being placed.

"Ayeayeaye– up, up, up, get 'im with th– _ohhhh_…" A scattered chorus of various impressed or disappointed hollers followed in the wake of one of the helmsman's weapons clattering to the deck floor, but the stakes were small enough that all results were taken with a relative degree of goodhearted sportsmanship.

"Alright, alright… next? Any takers?"

The rules were simple. To keep the actual damage to a minimum, there was to be little to no contact – no feet, no tackles – and disarmament spelled instant defeat. If neither lost a weapon, taking two taps to the gut or ribs, or one of the neck or heart also qualified as a loss. No headshots were permitted.

As the most recent victor spread his arms, fishing for challengers, Matthew watched Gilbert, off to the side, as he urged his brother to join. Ludwig looked adamant, his back to the forward mast and arms folded, expression stern. However, interested in seeing his appointed keeper's skills in action for himself, Matthew made a split second decision.

"Come now, Mister Beilschmidt…" he spoke up, not overly loud but enough so to earn the two brothers' attentions, as well as much of the crew. He tiled his head once his guard's eyes were on him, quirking up the corners of his lips in a wry, baiting smile. "Surely it wouldn't be too much of a chore for you to oblige us with _one _match, mm?"

Ludwig hesitated. "Miss Bondevik… this display of violence is already inappropriate for a lady. I would have thought–"

"Ah, but you forget, Mister Beilschmidt," Matthew kept his tone neutral, "that I have been surrounded with men for quite some time. With two brothers and a father, I can safely assure you: It is difficult to unsettle me with violence alone. On the contrary…" He settled back, propping his elbows against the rail behind him. "…I find this highly preferable to mapping the sun's path and naming cloud patterns. Please?" He smiled, eyes idly tracing the path of a loose strand of hair across Ludwig's face, pushed by the wind for a brief moment before the man caught it and shoved it back against his head.

Lukas would be proud, he thought. He was managing to keep this up very well.

"Milady…" Ludwig began to object, but then, apparently, he reconsidered midsentence and never finished, rolling his shoulders and shaking his head instead. "Very well. If it is a show you would like, milady…"

Whatever retort Matthew had opened his mouth for died in his throat when Ludwig's hands dropped to his waist, loosening, lifting, and shedding his shirt with easy, careless grace. Matthew's eyes immediately tripped over the bared skin, tracing the sharp lines of unbridled masculinity with the attention of a mapmaker and swallowing the details whole.

If the man looked well put together with his clothes on, he looked like a fair-skinned, rippling demigod with half of them off: Built as an arena fighter for emperors, but trimmer than a board and stoic as one, as well. When Matthew caught himself wondering sardonically if this _was _the show, heat swam in his cheeks and he jerked his eyes away, at once irritated and flushed and uncomfortable under his skin. He felt incredibly warm.

Flushing darker still, he curtly crossed his legs, petulant.

The two men were facing off now – the previous victor edgy, at the ready with his wooden swords forward, to either side, and Ludwig loose, almost thoughtful. Matthew wondered who had taught him such a fighting stance, but then remembered that Gilbert had taken the exact same stance during one of his fights. That explained it well enough. Then, quick as a whistle on some unspoken cue, everything was movement.

The deckhand moved in first, going for a speedy and surprise advantage, but Ludwig swerved as easily as a lazy step to the side, leaving the other to hit wide to the left at nothing. The spectators quickly backed up, giving their sparring circle more girth, but from the sidelines, it became obvious to Matthew in minutes that Ludwig was barely putting forth an effort.

He tested his opponent's range, first, baiting him – though subtly – and then retreating again within a fraction of the last possible moment. He then tested the man's adaptability and speed, advancing and forcing a string of blocks out of his opponent – while always seeming to leave just enough time for the other to react – and then going back to leaving himself open only to skirt any damage just before it landed.

It wasn't long before the deckhand began to visibly tire, his steps growing more and more sluggish and his attacks more wild with each passing minute, and finally, not so much out of pity as boredom with the crewman's incompetence, Matthew huffed and waved a hand.

"Very impressive, Mister Beilschmidt," he called, shaking his head, "… but please do not embarrass him anymore for the sake of my entertainment…" There was a fraction of a moment where his guard's eyes met his.

Then, Ludwig shrugged, and the next time his opponent swung forward there was a jerk, two twin clatters as both of his weapons dropped to the deck, and a brief, feather-light tap of Ludwig's left sword to the crewman's neck before he could move out. Matthew lifted a hand to his mouth to hide his wide smile; Gilbert simply laughed aloud.

"Oh, _yeah_?" The downed man swung around in the direction of the hissed laughter, shouting out between pairs of pants. "I'd like to see _you _do better!"

However, before Gilbert could snap a response, Matthew stood. "I don't think that will be necessary," he interrupted smoothly, pushing down the folds of his dress and eyeing the peaked man's flushed face with some mixture of amusement and pity, "seeing that anyone could top your performance without much effort…" Not surprisingly, the man spluttered indignantly. "Actually, I believe I could do better myself," Matthew said flatly, and out of the corner of his eye, he noticed his guard tense.

"Miss Bondevik…"

"Come to think of it, that does sound interesting," Matthew continued, an idea rapidly forming in his mind, heedless of Ludwig's warning. Without bothering to wait for a response, he turned to the crew, flashed his best smile and asked, "What do you say I match any bets from a man who says I can't disarm my own guard, single-handedly?"

There was a murmur amongst the men, most of them probably trying to decide whether he was teasing or serious. Gilbert looked amused; Ludwig did not look pleased.

"Forgive me, milady, but it's pointless to get them started. I do not fight women."

Matthew clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Wouldn't you know, quite the coincidence, mm?" He met his guard's eyes with a little smile. "Neither do I."

"Miss Bondevik–"

"Don't think of this as a fight, Mister Beilschmidt," Matthew advised calmly. "Think of it…" He pondered for a moment, and then toed one of the fallen swords, "…as a game. With sticks."

Ludwig sighed. "Milady," he conceded. "I can allow you to disarm me in front of the crew, but I don't see that as being fair on their pocketbooks…"

"Mm, yes, I do see your point," Matthew considered aloud, pensive. "Well," he concluded after a moment, "I suppose the only option, then, is that we give you incentive not to lose as well."

Ludwig blinked. "My apologies again, Miss Bondevik, but I have nothing you want."

Immediately, Matthew's eyebrows hiked up, amusement and something else entirely evident in his expression as he said, "Now, I wouldn't go so far as to say that…"

A dusting of red crossed Ludwig's cheeks, and his guard cleared his throat. "Milady–"

"How about…" Matthew interrupted, "you wager me…" He tapped his chin, thoughtful for a moment before deciding. "How about you wager me a kiss?"

Oh yes, Lukas would be proud indeed.

* * *

**A/N **;; None of you realize how difficult only one little part of this chapter was for me. I spent an hour alone researching, comparing screenshots, looking at webcomic strips, etc. just to find out whether or not Prussia would be considered taller than Norway. It drove me _nuts_, because I didn't want to just assume, because what if I was _wrong_? I hate being wrong in simple things like this.

Guys… did you expect Prussia to get on the ship? I bet you did. It was kind of predictable – I mean, Prussia is undoubtedly my _favourite _Hetalia character and I couldn't just leave him… I couldn't just have him in one or two chapters and then just… _get rid of him_. No! He has to be on the journey too!

Another one of my reviewers asked if Canada was going to act the same way he did to Arthur with the German brothers. And I'm like… _Well… kind of… _I mean, I can't just change the personality I set for him just because. So, yeah, he'll warm up to both of them eventually – he's already started, with this chapter. So… yeah. That's the answer to your question.

**Dragon Silhouette: **Encounter with Italy and/or Romano? _Yesssssss. _I'll try to make it happen.

**Elisabeth Day: **Oh! Oh! I've read that story before – it _was _odd. This story is kind of weird, too, right? I like it. :D My favourite types of stories are with crack or uncommon pairings, so I have to try to write as many as I can before I eventually retire from fanfiction. But there's only one weird family – the two Nordics plus Canada. That's really weird? I didn't really think so…

Stay awesome, guys.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N **;; For those who have already seen this chapter, I apologize for the re-upload, but it was necessary. Thankfully, no one pointed it out, but there was a massive mistake in this chapter and I had to fix an entire section of it. Once again, I apologize for the inconvenience. Anyway, for new readers, enjoy this chapter!

* * *

**Synergy**

**…o…**

**Chapter Five**

**…o…**

* * *

"If I manage to disarm you, you owe me a kiss."

Ludwig stared at the woman before him, barely hearing the hissed chuckles of his brother and occasional playful whistles that bubbled up around him from the other members of the crew.

"A… kiss?" he repeated after a moment, dubious.

Surely, she wasn't serious. It wasn't his place – she was to be married, heavens protect – and they had only met less than twenty four hours ago. He had absolutely no grounds to touch her, let alone…

He found himself watching her lips as they curved up, smiling far more like a fox than an innocent canary, and he jerked his eyes up to her eyes instead – which were, unfortunately, no less sharp and no less filled with mischief.

"Yes," she confirmed, apparently garnering a great deal of amusement out of his anxiety. "Full on the lips, of course," she clarified, "no cheating. Although, I must admit, I don't see why you're fretting so…" She tilted her head, a single blonde lock of hair slipping to curve along her cheek as she eyed him from behind long, full lashes, "…it's not as if I'll _win_, eh?"

Ludwig frowned, because… well… she _was _right. She couldn't possibly expect to win. Maybe her brothers had taught her to hold a dagger once or twice, but she was still a woman, untrained, inexperienced, and _small, _and while Ludwig wasn't exactly egotistical (that honour went to his older brother alone), he knew, point of fact, that he was significantly more versed in weapons and open-handed combat than any of the other crewmembers on the ship – excluding Gilbert.

What he didn't understand was why she wanted to bother in the first place.

"You're right, miss," he said at last. "You won't win–"

"So, you accept?" she asked, more of an honest smile twitching at her lips than the wicked expression she had held before.

He pursed his lips. "I didn't say–"

"Don't worry, I promise to be gentle," she assured him, and she was back to being smug in a way that he had _never _seen a woman look, and all around him, the crew tittered with laughter and encouragement – cat calls and a few intermittent pieces of off-colour humour. He sighed.

"And what do I get if _I _win?" he asked at last, adding, "I don't want your money…" to clarify. He ignored Gilbert's sideline objection.

"Oh, yes, I suppose that is a factor…" she admitted. "Very well. If you win, I promise to refrain from flirting with you for the duration of the trip, seeing as it clearly makes you uncomfortable."

"I'm not uncomfo–" he began to object, but changed his mind midway, and frowned. After a moment, he asked, "The entire trip?" Oh, heavens above, why was he even considering this?

"That's what I said."

This was a bad idea. "Fine," he clipped at last, against his better judgment. He could hear Gilbert whooping in the background, and he wasn't sure who brother was cheering on. "But–"

"Fantastic," she cut him off, grinning. "I'll meet you back on deck in three minutes." And with that, she turned, skirts twirling about her ankles with the abruptness of the motion, leaving Ludwig to stare, speechless, as she retreated back towards her cabin.

He was still frowning, trying to figure out what, exactly, he was getting himself into when Gilbert, still standing by the forward mast, pushed up abruptly and followed after her, catching her just before she reached the door. After a very brief exchange, amongst smirks and grins and Gilbert's signature laughter, she disappeared inside. Ludwig resisted the urge to throw his hands skyward. Instead, after perhaps a minute of debate, he gave in and headed for her door.

"I wouldn't…" Gilbert started as he approached, but when Ludwig raised an eyebrow, halting directly before the entrance, his brother lifted his hands in defeat. "Alright, just, you know, a suggestion…"

"Mm." Ludwig knocked, and Gilbert retreated. "Milady," he called after a moment, "forgive me for interrupting, but–"

"Come in," his charge invited, "just be sure to close the door behind you."

Not expecting that, he hesitated a moment, but eventually conceded, doing as he was instructed.

It was such a shame that he hadn't seen Gilbert's wild grin as he stood in the background, arms crossed over his chest and ears perked, waiting.

"Miss," Ludwig began as soon as he entered, "I'm still not precisely sure what yo– _oh, _heavens, Great Father and Mother protect, _what_," he swore indiscernibly, spinning immediately to face the door and pulling it shut roughly before anyone happened to glance in, "in the stars' names do you think you're doing?!"

"What would you say it looks like I'm doing?" she asked innocently.

Oh, he could _hear _the amusement in her voice. What kind of lady was _this_? Ludwig's face burned. "You said," he ground out, "that I could come _in_…"

"I did," his charge agreed, unfazed. "Now, by the door, to your left, there is a stack of undershirts. If you could be so kind as to pass me one…"

Ludwig shut his eyes. "Miss Bondevik…"

"Oh, come now, you act as if you've never seen a woman undressed before." He listened to the gentle shuffle of padded feet on hardwood. "You didn't expect me to fight in _skirts_, did you?"

"I honestly didn't give it much thought," Ludwig admitted, still facing the door, but he reached for the aforementioned undergarments regardless, keeping his back to his charge as he held the fabric out. "You _didn't, _however, have to permit me to enter," he added, feeling very justified in his irritation, but she only hummed in response, accepting the clothes without comment. After a moment, at least as much to distract from the soft rustling of cloth as anything else, he asked, "What did my brother say to you?"

"Mm? Oh." There was a clip and a swish. "Several things. He advised that I not get my hopes up…" a rustle of cloth, "…that it would be very difficult to connive you into bed with me…" Ludwig almost choked on air, "…seeing as you apparently rarely bed strangers, never sleep out of your class, and prefer the company of men, besides…" He was beginning to wonder if Gilbert hadn't been right when he cautioned him not to enter. "But I told him he needn't worry," his charge continued, unaware, "since – you can turn around now, I am perfectly decent – I have absolutely…" Ludwig, though hesitant, turned slowly, and thus managed to meet his charge's eyes directly as she said, "…no intention whatsoever of sleeping with you. Among other things, but I won't bore you with the details." She smiled sweetly.

"Ah," he responded, blinking as his eyes skirted automatically over the body before him, clothed now, at least; she _was _beautiful, "that's… good to know."

"Mm. Indeed." Her fingers worked deftly up a set of buttons, fastening in place a fine, royal blue vest over a crisp white, loose tunic topic and roomy trousers – men's clothing, obviously, but high quality and clearly not a frivolous purchase – and Ludwig wondered if they were her brother's. "Is it true?"

Ludwig drew himself from his thoughts, looking back up to her eyes to find her watching him, her fingers already having moved on to start slipping through her seemingly endless locks of hair, taming the blonde tresses into a growing braid. "Excuse me?"

"Is it true," she repeated, "that you prefer the company of men?"

"Oh, that…" Ludwig could feel his face grow warm once again, watching her fingers, following each in and out as they threaded through her hair – quick and darting with practiced efficiency. "Yes," he said eventually, looking away, "generally speaking."

She looked up. "Generally?"

"I travel a lot," Ludwig explained, a slow frown developing on his face as he spoke. "I don't have the time or resources to settle down, to devote as much attention to a partner as they would deserve if things became serious. If I got attached…"

"So you sleep with men so that you don't fall in love with anyone?" There was no grin, no smirk on her face to accompany the question. She looked honestly curious, her head cocked as her fingers continued to work in her hair.

Ludwig shifted uncomfortably – this was not the sort of conversation he should be having with someone he just met, or anyone, for that matter – and he turned his gaze away, inspecting a far wooden wall. "That's not true. I could come to care for either equally easily, it's only women tend to _expect_, or at least hope for, more permanent relationships on a more frequent basis, and I…"

"You don't like to hurt…"

Ludwig looked back.

"Or use anyone, or lead them on…" She finished with her hair, fastening the end quickly and securely before tossing it behind her. She raised her head again, meeting his eyes. "You're a good man, aren't you…"

Ludwig's brow furrowed, puzzled. "Is that a… question, or–?"

Madeline smiled softly. "I think it was going to be," she said, "but then I reached a decision before coming to the end of it." Pulling tight the last clasp on her belt, she straightened, and started for the door. Then, "Oh, I meant to ask…" she paused, just before he opened it for her, "…why _did _you come in, anyway?"

A moment passed as Ludwig fought with his first thought – _Because you invited me in… _– and tried to remember why he had even approached in the first place. Then, it came to him. "Because," he answered, "I am still not entirely sure what it is you expect to get out of this… that is, what it is you want for me to do… Also, my brother…"

"Well… I want you to fight me," she said, "obviously." She cocked her head. "Your brother was no trouble to me."

It was one of the rare few times Ludwig felt honestly tempted to roll his eyes, both for the fact that he knew his brother was trouble to _everybody_, and that this woman still insisted on fighting him so adamantly. Instead, he opened the door for her, holding back the urge. "I have told you that I will not fight you."

"Mm, well, then, you will lose, and you'll just have to kiss me," Madeline responded without hesitation, stepping up and out and lifting a hand to her eyes to shield against the sudden light. He followed after her, keeping himself a suitable distance behind her.

"I said I would not fight you, Miss Bondevik. If I remember correctly, you have to disarm me in order to keep your bet. I'll have you know that I _am _capable of keeping hold of my weapons without ever throwing a strike."

"Ah, yes, Gilbert informed me of that…" When she smiled, Ludwig could only wonder how she managed to make the simple gesture so simultaneously roguish and elegant. "And we'll certainly see you try, won't we?" Apparently, his mystification showed, because when she looked back his way, that smile blossomed into something bright and new entirely, and for a second, he thought she might laugh. Instead, she shook her head, her tone lighter and more teasing than he had heard yet when she said, "Come, Mister Beilschmidt… and I will show you how the Bondeviks fight."

It was the first time he wondered if there might actually be something to her bluff.

* * *

The crew greeted their reappearance with "enthusiasm" to say the least, though Ludwig didn't fool himself into thinking that a good greater half of it wasn't due solely to his charge's change in attire. When they reached the centre of the deck, the noise subdued somewhat in anticipation, and his charge stopped to lift her pair of swords, testing their weight in each hand experimentally.

After a moment, she pursed her lips thoughtfully. "So," she began, "how is one to hold these, again?"

Ludwig stared, disbelief etched on his features. The second before he opened his mouth, however, she flipped one, catching it neatly without any apparent effort and then settled into a narrow, but relaxed fighting stance the next moment. After wondering briefly if he might, perhaps, amend his personal rule and allow himself just _one _attack after all, he silently chastised himself, settling into a loose, open stance of his own.

"Seeing as how I won't be advancing, milady, it will be up to you to initia–"

Before he finished, she swept in.

In his defense, Ludwig _knew _that there were women out there capable of holding their own in a fight; you didn't make it halfway across the world fighting for a living without coming across the occasional combat ready female. Madeline Bondevik, on the other hand, was a _noble_ – the last born daughter of a man a couple titles away from royalty, on her way to be wedded – the type of woman who learned _needlework _as a girl, not swordsmanship. He had felt pretty safe in assuming that the best she could have to offer would be some tin show of skills imparted on her by her brothers.

And… well… he had been wrong before.

Their swords came together with a sharp crack, and Ludwig found himself moving to block and swerving around again to divert and dodge before he finished wondering when she had learned to fake a jab and throw a backhand cross without tripping herself _or _leaving her defenses wide open.

_Crack!_

She moved in tight, disciplined formations – quite the polar opposite of Gilbert's wildcard roundhouses and death gamble backspins – always upholding a rigid, vigilant defense.

_Crack-crack!_

She didn't hit hard – harder, though, admittedly, than Ludwig had initially expected – but she moved remarkably fast, with admirable agility, steady footing, and good stance control, all without sacrificing variety or inventiveness for her speed.

_Crack! _

By the third minute or so, it felt significantly more like a dance than anything else, Ludwig stepping in and out – matching her pace, meeting her strikes, and abiding by her tempo – and his charge happily taking the lead, guiding their steps and directing the game without pushing for a finish with any sense of urgency.

"You know," he said – _crack! _– taking a step to the side, allowing himself to admire the way her cheeks flushed nicely with the exertion, a few renegade strands of bright blonde tresses already escaping their braid and hugging the curve of her chin and neck, "as impressive as all this is…" _Crack! _"…you're no closer to disarming me now than you were at the outset…"

_Crack!_

"Oh, I know," she replied, sweeping in and making a broad uppercut, left arm curling in to guard, despite the fact that Ludwig, as promised, had yet to make an attack, "but honestly, I'm quite enjoying myself. It's been too long since I last had such a…" _Crack! _"…venerable opponent." She dipped, "Your style is also…" sidestepped, "…fascinating…" struck out, "…I've never seen anything like it…" and – _crack! _– hit.

"I'm honoured," Ludwig answered, and wondered how long she planned to keep this up.

"However," his charge added, "if you want to end this…"

Before Ludwig opened his mouth, she moved in, catching him off-guard by baring her back, but bringing it within a quarter foot of his chest, more or less fitting itself into the curve of his body without actually touching, and in the next moment, her sword swept up, hitting at his not at angle that was "blade to blade" so to speak, but hilt to hilt, the base of hers cracking against his with a strikingly sharp force. That alone, of course, would have been far from enough to dislodge the weapon under any regular circumstances.

Unfortunately, the instant their hilts snapped together, the wood under his palm _burned _– not like a fire or hot coal burn, but like metal, a blacksmiths' blade nearing the melting point under the heat of the forge – and, caught completely unaware, Ludwig's hold faltered and broke.

In the seconds that followed, he reacted instinctively.

His left hand moved in, her body drew up, her swords swung down, and by the time his lost weapon clattered to the deck, he had his spare blade to her neck, her back flat to his chest, and her blades without a quarter inch of his–

His face warmed, and he cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. "Ah… miss–"

She tilted her head back, dropping it against his chest to meet his eyes from below, and he worked hard not to swallow, barely containing a shiver in its stead as her hair slid over his skin. Her smirk expertly teased the fine line between triumphant and wicked. Perhaps he should have kept his skirt on after all, despite the heat.

"If these were real," she said, "you'd never father children…"

That, thankfully, gave him the concentration needed to scowl, and Ludwig shifted, just barely tapping his sword up, to her chin. "If these were real," he reminded her gruffly, "you'd have been dead, _many _minutes ago."

"Mm…" Her lashes flitted down as she glanced that way, painting light blonde crescents on slightly flushed pink cheeks, and at length she nodded. "Yes, I do suppose so…" she admitted, "…fair enough," and with that, she withdrew her weapons.

He (very gratefully) released her and stepped back, trying – with less success than he might have liked – to ignore the lingering heat clinging to his front, leaving his skin irritatingly tingly and attentive. Perhaps he needed to go to shore at the next port after all – sleep with something that _wouldn't _get him hung if he got caught. He frowned thoughtfully.

"I do, however," she cut into his thought process, "believe that, according to the terms of our bet…" She turned on him, and he tensed, wary, "…I won, and you owe me something."

_How about you wager me a kiss._

His eyes flicked immediately to her soft, smirking mouth, taunting him from under sharp blue eyes that dared him to object, and Ludwig nearly took a step back. He hadn't actually considered _losing. _He couldn't–

She turned before he had to make any drastic decisions, moving to face the watching sailors and then saying in a loud, instructor's voice with no small degree of cockiness, "There are two – no, _three _lessons to be derived from today's show, gentlemen…" Her voice grew far above the normal whisper-soft tone he had been hearing throughout the entire trip, and he wondered how hard she had to try to manage her voice that loud – or perhaps that was simply its regular tone and she kept it down quietly as to not turn off any point of her femininity.

Ludwig watched her as she moved.

"The first… is to never make a bet unless you know something the other man doesn't."

He observed the shoulder-width of her legs when she paused, the way she held her shoulders as she tucked three fingers into her vest pocket, and the high set of her chin as she spoke.

"The second," she continued, "is to never bet something you're unwilling or unable to lose, and the third…" Her lip curled up, like smoke, into a smirk that Ludwig almost would have kissed just to wipe away, "…is to never bet against me."

She dropped her swords to the deck, and Ludwig came to an obscure revelation: She didn't hold herself strangely – no, it wasn't that simple. She just didn't hold herself like a lady of the court. She held herself like a _nobleman. _"You may keep all your gold, and consider it a charitable lesson in hasty betting, _except_…" She turned back to Ludwig, "…for you. You may hold onto my winnings for me. I'll collect when I please."

When she turned, Ludwig watched her retreating form with some volatile mix of bewilderment and trepidation, and for the first time since its outset, he seriously wondered what _exactly _he had gotten himself into when he signed up for this job.

* * *

**A/N **;; If you're raised by Vikings, you have to learn how to fight. Or, in this case, if you're raised a nobleman, _you have to learn how to fight. _

Guys. Were you expecting Canada to win? Originally, that wasn't to be the case, but I thought it might be a good idea. And it was! It might happen again, I'm not sure… I did enjoy writing the fight scene, actually.

By the way, I've been waiting to write that Germany walks in on Canada scene for _ages. _That was one of the first scenes I planned for this story and I'm so glad I finally got a chance to write it. I have a scene like that (not the exact same, of course, but kind of based around the same idea) planned for **Equilibrium**, which again, was one of the first things I planned for the damn thing.

**iivogelchen: **Well, I'm glad you're getting so into the story! Lol. (I love Romanada, too, by the way. They're so… awesome…) Thanks for the review!

**Guest: **Thanks! I'm glad people are enjoying the way I wrote Canada/Canako, as I was kind of unsure if I would lose reviewers because he/she is not all doormat-ty (new word) and stuff. Thanks for your review!

**bluebacon: **THANK YOU SOoOoOoOoO MUCH FOR YOUR REVIEW! (I'm loving the enthusiasm, by the way.) -throws arms up in the air dramatically-

**Dragon Silhouette: **Norway is the brother, I assure you. Lord Bondevik (the brothers' father) is an OC, but I don't think he'll be featured at all, so he's not important. (And if everything goes well, I think I've found a place for the Italies. Their appearance should be quite a few chapters down the road, but… they're there.) Thanks for the review, as always.

There's a new character next chapter guys – frying pan included. ;)

Stay awesome, guys.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N **;; Hungary, you're here! And Turkey! And Romania… is mentioned!

Ah, right, new characters' human names are as follows:  
**Hungary: **Elizabeta Héderváry**  
Turkey: **Sadik Adnan **  
Romania: **(Vladimir) _Yeah, guys. No last name here. This is my name for Romania (the last name of "Dracul" would be added if I hadn't already decided that he was going to be a fairy. And that sounds really odd, now that I read that back to myself. Oh well.)_

* * *

**Synergy**

**…o…**

**Chapter Six**

**…o…**

* * *

A sickening crunch – that of bones splintering in on themselves as sheer force meshed them together, like spring twigs bucking under the weight of an earth slide – came immediately before a piercing, blood curdling wail that echoed about the walls of the poorly lit, musky chamber passing itself off as a battler's ring. Slowly, as the zealous roars of the spectators swallowed up the muted, spitting cries to follow, Elizabeta shut her eyes and lifted the well-nursed mug before her to her lips.

The human alcohol was, if possible, in even poorer taste than the interior decorating, but not quite so stomach turning, at least, as the "entertainment." If nothing else, it burned nicely on the way down, further dulling her already addled senses, helping to drown out the gurgle of the ongoing bloodbath.

It was one thing to pit willing humans one against another – or any race, for that matter – so long as the participants were in their right minds and fighting with rules and regulations. It was another entirely to capture wild beasts, toss them in cages and make bets on what would happen. Or, perhaps worse yet, to throw ill-equipped, malnourished _slaves _in with vicious predators of all stripes.

None who knew her would call her a pacifist, but the sheer _injustice _of it–

"Captain Héderváry…"

An unidentified voice called through the gloom, fighting its way through the winding mist and fog of her thoughts, and Elizabeta squinted at her mug, narrowing glinting, green eyes on the dark, murky liquid, as if _it _perhaps might be the source of the summoning.

"Captain Héderváry…"

But no, the putrid excuse for a drink did not, in fact, seem to be acting in any way even remotely out of the ordinary, let alone attempting any form of communication with her. That, though, unfortunately still left the question: Who–?

"_Captain!"_

When a heavy, burly hand clapped her shoulder, she spun, half tripping off her stool in the process, but still managing to sling her assailant back with enough force to shake the flooring when he hit the ground. Something on the bar top clattered behind her, she dropped her weight, knee slamming into his chest as her blade moved in, and–

Elizabeta blinked, bleary, as her first mate came gradually into focus beneath her, and a short groan met her ears as he squirmed, awkwardly, against her dagger – poised ominously at his throat. After a long moment, she scowled, letting up.

"Sadik?"

The man coughed, bringing a hand to his throat and grimacing distastefully. "That's me, cap'n, an' a fine evening to you, too," he replied, pushing onto his elbows with a lingering scowl. "So what's with it, huh? Someone piss dragon magic in that poison you been guzzlin'?"

Elizabeta huffed and stood – though she instantly regretted it, bringing a fast hand to her suddenly cartwheeling head and whining before she could swallow the sound. "Ohhh, for… unnnghhh…" She barely heard Sadik stand over the throbbing in her skull. "You can go die in a pit of hellfire for all I care, Sadik… You'd best… have some great… reason… to–"

"Eliza–? Ahh! What the hell!" What started as a concerned inquiry cut off sharply in face of her jerking forward, snatching up the front of his shirt and raising her dagger all over again. "Ah, Eliza! Eli, _Eli_…"

She grunted. "Fuck…" she muttered, though by the time she let go of the man's shirt, her 'threatening' grip was almost as much of a cling to keep her upright than anything else.

"So…" she began, speaking slowly in order to avoid tripping over her own words; it took a distressing amount of concentration. "What… are you _doing_… here?"

"Ah!" Sadik scratched the back of his head for a moment. Elizabeta glared daggers at him as he struggled to remember. "Right! There's a summons for you, cap'n," he said, and she simply blinked up at him. "Ya know, Vladimir…"

She groaned.

"Eli–"

"No," she growled with as much force and clarity as she could muster. "No, no, nonononono–"

"But–"

"I said _no! _Tell him he can shove his _tiny, _withered and _unpractised _royal excuse for a prick in a sewer goblin's rusty muck rudder for all I care!"

"But it's about _that one._"

Elizabeta stilled. Her lips closed, and for a brief, her eyes lost some of their light, fazing to a dull green. Then she blinked, shaking her head abruptly, narrowing her vibrant eyes once again. She turned on her first mate, asking, "Will he die… if I succeed at what Vlad wants?"

Sadik frowned, torn between concern and reluctance. "Eli… I realize y–"

"Will–he–_die_?" Elizabeta insisted, hard and slow, and her first mate sighed.

"I don't think so," he admitted. "Not yet, at least. Vlad says it's a mission to get leverage on him." Elizabeta snorted. "They've found out why the Council is so preoccupied," he pressed, anxious as she turned back towards the computer and, consequently, her ale. "This could be a _turning point_, Eli… maybe our only chance to gain ground before war even breaks, and–"

"Now you're starting to sound like him!" Elizabeta accused, fire in her eyes as she turned on him. "I don't _care _about anyone's damn war, Sadik! I don't _care _if those fire-bitten, green-blooded _vermin _scour humans and fae-folk alike from this earth. I _want… _to _feed _that murdering, black-hearted _monster _his own heart and watch him _choke _on it, and I don't care if it takes me–"

"No offense, captain," Sadik said quietly, watching the woman with careful eyes from behind his mask, "but you're drunk. I'm not sure now is the best time to–"

"To hell with you, you fucking imbecile!" she nearly screeched. "OF COURSE I'M DRUNK! I'll–"

His hand caught behind her neck, tugging, and her body vaulted forward – off of the stool she had climbed back onto, and gracelessly back towards the ground. By the time her hands found purchase at his hips, barely holding her uncooperative legs upright, he had his second hand under her chin, his thumb to her lips.

"Eliza," he warned slowly, stoically, and her grip on his waist clenched, released, and clenched again, her body barely trembling.

"He… _slaughtered_… my–"

_Friends. Family. _

"I know," he said quietly.

"…in front of my _eyes_…"

_Ruined my life. _

"I was there, Eli–"

"…made me _watch_, Sadik… watch! I have to kill him, I have to–"

_Destroyed me. _

"–and I _swear _by all the gods of this realm and the next, when the opportunity presents itself, I will help you in whatever way I can… but this is neither the time, nor the place, and what Vlad offers now may give you the opening you need." He took a breath, dropping his finger from her lips but leaving the other behind her neck and holding her gaze. "Now, come on, girl. We'll sail at dawn, yes?" He laughed, loud and booming, beginning to lead Elizabeta above ground.

Elizabeta snorted – a quiet, choked half-breed between laughter and tears. "And here I thought you were being serious, for once…"

In the distance, a storm was brewing.

* * *

Dark water broke against the bow of the _Fair Lady, _the waves all but black as the ship cut forward through the sea, their darkness broken only by the occasional shimmering, blue-green bioluminescent marine fauna that lit up when disturbed by the turbulence. Tiny jellyfish, bits of live algae, or even fish, Matthew wasn't sure, but they looked like fairy dust, sprinkled on the waves. Beautiful, in a way – so long as one didn't stop to consider what _else _might make its home in those bottomless deeps.

Under the open night sky and perched with his elbows on the rail, Matthew shivered, and eyes followed the trek of the waves as they lapped back along the hull. Men died at sea all the time.

How bad could it be?

"A little late for stargazing–"

Matthew whipped around, his heart throwing itself against the cage like a battering ram as he jumped, and–

Calm, steady blue eyes met his without a flicker of surprise.

"–isn't it?"

Matthew swallowed, willing his pulse back down within reasonable levels, and eventually, he pursed his lips, interest piqued. "I didn't hear you come up."

"I noticed," Ludwig replied without any sort of inflection, and Matthew only barely suppressed a huff, turning back to the sea and folding his arms again, this time slightly tighter across his chest.

"I don't require your company."

"Perhaps I felt like enjoying the sea breezes."

Matthew waited, frowning at the distant horizon in silence, feeling the nip of chilled air skittering along his neck, over his face, and through his hair. At least it was a headwind. Maybe if he said nothing, his guard would leave…

Two footsteps, barely louder than the wind and only noticeable because he was listening now, sounded behind him, and out of the corner of his eye, Matthew watched the dark shape of his guard settle in beside him. He left a good foot or so of distance between them, far enough away to allow for personal space, but close enough to ensure that Matthew went nowhere without his consent, should he choose to make any drastic moves.

Matthew turned his eyes to the water beneath them, as if to blame the ocean itself for his own reluctance to greet it when he had the chance.

"Do not look so disappointed," Ludwig commented neutrally. "If you were truly intent of sealing your fate, there would be little I could do to stop you." When Matthew looked up, his guard's gaze was distant, turned towards the sky. "I could keep you from jumping now, of course, but there is hardly a limit to the number of ways someone with even a little creativity and determination can find to bring about their own end."

Matthew eyed him, considerate. At last, he said, "Emil warned you."

"He did," Ludwig admitted.

"Instructed you to stop me?"

"More or less."

Matthew ran a thumb over the smoothed wooden rail and lowered his eyes again, his brows drawing together in mild confusion. "Why, then, are you not concerned with my intentions one way or the other?"

"I never said that."

When Matthew glanced up, he found his guard's eyes on him – still calm, but also soft and contemplative.

"I said only that if you were truly determined, there would be nothing I could do to stop you. If that were the case, though, I expect you wouldn't have been here to have this talk with me by the time I stepped outside."

Matthew scoffed. "In other words, you think I'm bluffing?" he asked.

"If I'm wrong in that assumption, though, I would have you know… this would be a very unwise point in our voyage to take your swim."

Matthew blinked, studying him, and finally, after a moment, he ventured a wary, "Why?"

"We left the coastal region some hours ago and should be well into Serpent's Channel by now, the last league of our trip before the way opens into the Carthan Sea," Ludwig explained. "Do you know why they call it Serpent's Channel?"

Matthew propped his chin in his hand, eyeing his guard with dubious intent. "Sea monsters?" he guessed, letting the words drip with unimpressed sarcasm.

Unexpectedly, Ludwig smiled, shaking his head – not a malicious smile, just briefly amused. "No," he answered, "not sea monsters. We won't have to worry about krakens and sea dragons until we make it to the open ocean."

Matthew stared. "Surely, you are not serious–"

"Are you familiar with the salcidae, milady?" Ludwig asked, turning more fully towards Matthew and propping one side on the rail.

"Giant, blood-sucking, nocturnal spider creatures twice the size of a man with enough venom to down an army?" Matthew asked, dubious. "They're nothing but a myth."

"They're closer to three or four times the size of a man when fully grown, actually, though the rumour that their venom can do that much damage is a myth, yes," Ludwig conceded, "seeing as they're carnivores and they paralyze rather than poison their prey, but that is not the point I'm getting at."

Matthew listened, curious.

"Salcidae venom," Ludwig explained, "is a powerful numbing agent, designed specifically to immobilize prey at least three times the beast's own size, if not larger. Of course, it takes effect in humans instantly, and due to the strength of the overdose, it usually overwhelms the system, making it fatal. A better fate, however, than the rare cases in which it doesn't immediately kill its victims."

Against his better judgement, Matthew prompted, "Why?"

"The salcidae's particular brand of neurotoxin is generally enough to stop a body dead in its tracks. When it doesn't, the senses left functioning are infallibly those in the brain, leaving just enough life in your body for you to be cognitively aware… as the beasts eat you alive."

Matthew straightened his legs, and did not swallow, ignoring the sudden vague queasiness in his gut.

"The good news is," Ludwig continued, "that the rest of your body is numb enough that you barely feel a thing. It's only a sort of gruesome mental torture to watch your flesh being ripped from your body and your bones being–"

"Excuse me, Mister Beilschmidt," Matthew clipped out, "what exactly does this have to do with this pass being known as 'Serpent's Channel'?" He didn't need any more details, thank you very much.

"Oh, yes, of course," Ludwig said. "My apologies, milady. It is relevant because the species of eel native to these waters, the Irean sea snake, has a venom very similar to that of the salcidae. The Irean eels are also nocturnal, also carnivorous, and also quite venomous, but with one key difference. While their bite also paralyzes their prey, it works at a much slower pace… and it lacks the numbing agent."

Matthew frowned, determined not to show his unease. "I can't swim, Mister Beilschmidt. I have confidence that I would drown before the dietary habits of any sea creatures came into play."

"If you were fortunate, you would," Ludwig agreed. "Unfortunately, these eels are easily agitated by disturbances in turbulence, and tend to flock towards moving objects at the surface. If you died before you were bitten, you would be in luck. If not, you would have a rather long and excruciatingly painful end ahead of you…"

"There's only a certain amount of time I could keep myself afloat to breathe, even if I were trying," Matthew argued. "I can take whatever damage they do to me in that amount of time."

"It's not the damage they would do to you immediately, Miss Bondevik," Ludwig explained. "It's the effect of the venom that makes all the difference. As I said, it works at a much slower rate. The intent is to incapacitate the prey would without killing it in order to keep it fresh for long periods of time. The effect on the human body is that it first slows your heart rate, reducing your need for oxygen, and then begins to turn your skin into a breeding ground for a rapidly-growing marine fauna most commonly known as the breathing kelp."

Matthew remembered reading about something along those lines as a boy when he had grown a fascination with alchemy: A transparent, jelly-like algae, nearly impossible to handle in its natural state, but often used dried in breathing potions for divers and the occasional fisherman.

"Within ten minutes, your body is coated in a thin, gelatinous substance which will provide you with just enough oxygen to survive and prevent you from drowning for days, even weeks, if you are unlucky enough to live that long. You will be able to see, feel, and think about every bite they take out of you until they come upon some vital organs – which they will eat around and instead save for last, to keep you alive for as long as possible. To add to the issue, the eels are also rather small, barely a foot and a half long at their largest with appetites to match, meaning that if you are not taken in by a very large school… it might take them quite some time to work all the way through you."

Matthew shut his eyes – saw sleek, scaly skin, luminescent eyes, wicked fangs, blood pooling in dark water – and snapped them almost immediately back open. He managed to a scowl at his guard. "_Why _do I believe you? You could easily be making this up, trying to frighten me out of my own decisions. I'll have you know, I'm not easily flustered. I'll admit, I would _rather _die without pain, and certainly quickly, but–"

"I'm a terrible liar, Miss Bondevik," Ludwig said bluntly, "and a rather poor story teller, at that. I would not make this up to frighten you–"

"I'm not frightened!" Matthew snapped.

"I didn't say you were," Ludwig conceded, still frustratingly calm, "…though you would be wise to be wary. I meant only to caution you."

Matthew looked away, resting his eyes on a far star. "Why?"

"Pardon?"

"_Why?" _Matthew repeated. "I realize my brother instructed you to protect me, and not to permit me to hurt myself, but why go to all that trouble just to 'explain' when you could so much more easily… anything, send me back to my cabin, lock me in my room, tie me down…"

"And you would consent to that?" Ludwig asked, and Matthew snorted.

"When a woman acts foolish, is it not your business to not care what she 'consents' to if you clearly know what's best for her?"

Ludwig gave him a strange look. "Women are just as capable of making rational decisions as men…"

Matthew's eyebrows jerked up. "Oh?" he asked. "You believe that?"

Ludwig frowned. "And you don't?"

"Well…" Matthew hummed, taking a moment to think about it. "Somewhat." He rolled his shoulders and resettled himself against the rail. "In my experience, all women I have encountered are petty, simple-minded and self-centred… not to mention entirely incapable of fending for themselves, if they ever possessed the inclination. However," he amended, "I am aware that not all women are as I described. Like in everything else, there are exceptions."

Ludwig's frown stayed in place, though it took on a curious, thoughtful air. "You and I have obviously had very different experiences with women." He was silent for a moment, then asked, "Which group of women do you count yourself among when you make those broad statements?"

Matthew looked up. "Sometimes, I'm not sure," he admitted. "I am weak in many ways, but I have my strengths as well, though I don't expect anyone to see them. So, I suppose I count myself among the exception."

His guard hummed and shook his head. "An interesting opinion, you have."

"If it helps to know," Matthew said, a little smile spreading across his lips as he spoke, "I have an equally pessimistic opinion of men."

"Oh?" Ludwig replied, sounding, at the very least, curious. "Let me guess, they're all… violent, greedy, and…" He considered his answer for a moment. "…controlling?"

"I put them in two categories, actually," Matthew said. "There are those who are cruel, selfish, power-hungry, and believe themselves destined to lead all others. And then there are the cowards."

"I see," the man replied. "And, just out of curiosity, my lady… which am I?"

Matthew looked to his guard, eyeing his quietly amused but cooperative and impeccably tolerant expression with interest. At last, he said, "You… fall into a third and as-of-yet unidentified category. You've proven to have too much decency so far to fit with any of my pre-ordained classifications."

"I almost feel flattered."

Matthew's smile widened slightly. "Don't," he advised. "I reserve the right to change my mind at any point, should you choose to prove me right and align yourself with either type."

When Ludwig chuckled, deep and soft, it crept under Matthew's skin like a breeze through his hair, and he turned his head down as his cheeks warmed, refolding his arms over his breasts.

"I'll do my best to never prove you right, Miss Madeline," Ludwig vowed, serious, and Matthew ventured a look up again, startled. It was the first time he had ever heard his (feminine) first name on his guard's lips. He could feel the warmth gathering in his chest heating further. "If you'll forgive my asking, though, milady…" Ludwig continued before Matthew could open his mouth to comment, "…why?"

Matthew blinked, not quite comprehending. "Why the negative perspective on humanity?" he asked.

"Why the negative perspective in general," Ludwig clarified. "What makes this world so _terrible _that a beautiful, intelligent, self-assured young woman feel she has no other choice but to take her own life?"

Matthew considered the question for a moment. Finally, he asked, "You think I'm beautiful?"

"That wasn't my question."

Matthew grinned slightly as he caught a patch of red on his guard's cheeks. That was to be expected, at this point, though. It seemed as though Ludwig was awkward at these types of encounters. And it only felt fair to continue on with this delightful turn in conversation. "No," he agreed, "it was mine. Are you going to answer it?"

* * *

**A/N **;; I don't think I can write Turkey. He's supposed to be all friendly and cheerful (in the present day), but I tried to keep in some of that old rivalry/conquering type thing (great word choice there, **DD**, you really sound like you're old enough to be writing these types of things) between Hungary and the Ottoman Empire, and… Well. Why don't my lovely readers tell me how well I got down his character?

Anyway, about Romania… everyone always says that he is a vampire. Well, I'm always for being _different_, so in this story, _he's a fairy! _

Yeah. Great fun this is going to be.

**Arieta41: **Wait... I converted you? _Yeeeeees. _That's _awesome. _

**Anime Alert: **Spain and/or Japan? Um... maybe for both.

**Dragon Silhouette: **I'm glad I apparently got Germany's reaction well - that was something I was just a little bit unsure of when I published the last chapter. Anyway, I can't write Austria, so I don't think he'll be appearing at all - if anything, he might be mentioned by one of the characters. And pirate!Hungary is awesome and amazing, so I couldn't help but feature her in this story. She'll be a recurring character, because how could I just have her feature in one chapter? Blasphemy!

Stay awesome, guys.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N **;; Alrighty then! Now we're really getting into the plot of this story!

Ahaha, sorry this update took so long! I have no excuse for it. This thing has been sitting in my document manager for well over a month, and I could have updated it at any time. Anyway, the next update to this story – in which there _will _be Greece... I think – is not coming any time soon. I'm going to put this story through an edit – there will be no plot changes, nor character changes (though perhaps additions), and yeah, I'll probably add Hungary's frying pan to this chapter and the previous one. Other than that, I'll just be cleaning up the writing a bit – there are some scenes where I think Germany and Canada are _completely _out of character, and I want to fix that as soon as possible. I want to add more Prussia, too.

Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

**Synergy**

**…o…**

**Chapter Seven**

**…o…**

* * *

Ludwig pursed his lips, eyeing his charge. The moonlight glowed on her cheeks, lending a soft, ethereal luminance to her skin while bringing light to the blonde hair framing her face, giving her an almost otherworldly glow. However, her eyes remained steadfast, returning his gaze unfalteringly. He supposed that was one of the things he admired about her – she truly was merciless. At last, he sighed, relenting.

"If I answer yours, will you answer mine?"

"Mm…" She glanced back out towards the ocean, thoughtful. "That hardly seems fair, Mister Beilschmidt. Mine is quite simple, while yours…" When she looked back at him, something unreadable lingered in her expression. "Well, to call a war a street fight, it is… complicated."

Ludwig waited.

And eventually, his charge sighed. "Very well. If you answer mine," she consented, "I will _attempt _to answer yours, the best that I can."

"I suppose that's all I can ask for…" Ludwig conceded, and studied her as she watched him, tracing the paths of light on her hair as the breezes pushed at it and mapping the sharp, elegant curves of her face with his eyes.

On the surface, hers seemed to be a gentle, graceful beauty – she certainly had the appearances for it – but despite the short amount of time they had known each other, Ludwig knew better than to just assume. No, Madeline Bondevik's beauty was a dangerous, wicked one – like a delicate desert flower that ate its victims alive or a siren song that lured sailors to their rocky graves – but beauty, nonetheless, and briefly, he wondered what man he was taking her to, what fingers would trace those cheeks and chin and lips without guilt and whether they would worship, tame, or break her.

_If _he succeeded in delivering her in the first place.

Abruptly, he shut his eyes, as those were thoughts he had no right to dwell on, and aloud he said, "Yes, I believe you're beautiful… but you knew that, didn't you?" He could feel the back of his neck heating, even in the chill wind.

"Ah, well… yes, I suppose I had my suspicions," his charge admitted, a faint teasing tone entering her voice as she said, "…but I wanted to hear you say it."

When Ludwig opened his eyes, she was smiling, a faint blush of her own dusting her cheeks, a look that on her only reinforced the sense of something perilous behind her allure, and not for the first time now, he wondered what he was doing, standing alone at night under the stars with a woman worlds out of his reach.

He rarely took interest in women in general, and when he did, they were practical, grounded ones – daughters of merchants, innkeepers, and mercenaries – those who had seen all walks of life and understood that some men simply didn't stay in one place for very long. He never meddled with the upper classes and wouldn't have it any other way. Madeline Bondevik was the furthest thing from his 'type', as his brother had told him, imaginable.

"So, are you going to tell me why you want nothing more with this world?" he asked, and she dropped her gaze, her former smile fading to something more grim and severe.

"Ah, yes. I did promise that, eh?" She took a breath. "As far as I can tell," she began at last, "I have the length of this journey before I am to be wed to a child – a child I know nothing of and certainly care nothing for. If I were to consent to completing this journey, arriving on time and going through with everything as my father has planned, I would live out three or four years of relative peace and nearly unbearable boredom before he developed an interest in me, at which point I would become his doll until he grew bored of me. From there, I would live out the rest of my life with no thought given to me until he desired to bear a child, and I watch him fleet from mistress to mistress, silently waiting out the much-desired end to my pointless existence."

Ludwig blinked, startled by the sudden, jarringly coarse words.

"I suppose," she finished wearily, "the heart of it is that I have no interest in the life I know awaits me. I enjoyed relative control over my life until very recently, and it's not something I want to willingly give up. The concept of playing the role of a pampered whore to a spoilt child half my age is not appealing, and I have no intentions of greeting that fate, whatever the cost may be."

Ludwig frowned. "Well, if you are indeed set on it, you could at _least _wait until you arrive and save me the trouble of explaining the situation to your family, possibly getting myself hung…" Madeline jerked her head up sharply, eyes wide, and Ludwig figured that perhaps she hadn't considered that part of her plan. He shrugged. "Either that, or do away with your betrothed, if he turns out to be as detestable as you predict…"

She snorted, but her frown only looked sad and weary. "As pleasant as that sounds, Mr. Beilschmidt, I doubt it would end well for me in the long run."

Ludwig considered her words for a moment, thoughtful. Eventually, on a more serious note, he said, "If all you really want is control over your life, why not make him fall in love with you?" At the look she gave him, he sighed. "Surely it can't be that hard… I have a book, if you'd like to see it…"

Madeline's eyebrows hiked up to her forehead and she laughed, a soft, gentle sound that sounded pleasant in his ears. "Have you ever made an attempt?" she asked, still laughing, raising a hand to her mouth to muffle the sounds. She sounded honestly amused – there wasn't a malicious or teasing smirk hidden beneath her hand, nor did her laughter sound performed.

A small smile edged at his lips. "Pardon?"

"To make anyone fall in love with you," she clarified. "Have you ever tried it?"

Ludwig resisted the urge to roll his eyes – even in good humour, he didn't think the action would be very acceptable. "Forgive me for speaking the obvious, milady, but I think you're better equipped than I for that task…"

"Mm…" she hummed, unconvinced. Her laughed had died down, but her smile remained. "For some men, I suppose…" she conceded.

"It was only a suggestion, though, I must admit, at least thus far you do seem to be the sort very well suited to the variety of…"

"Manipulation?" she guessed.

"…persuasive exploitation," Ludwig finished.

She laughed, and Ludwig wasn't sure what he had expected, but once again, the warmth and openness in the sound caught him off guard. Then, for a brief, fleeting second, he caught sight of her wide grin – bold and mischievous – before it was again replaced with a smile that didn't quite dampen the light in her eyes.

"Yes," she said. "I suppose I am occasionally guilty of some forms of… as you say… persuasive exploitation… to better my own interests. Everyone does at some point, eh? But, there is a reason I would never fare particularly well at court…"

When Ludwig raised an eyebrow in question, her smile warmed, and she met her gaze.

"I am very, very poor at 'pretending' to like people. Those who I have distaste for tend to learn of it very quickly. There is only so much time that I can keep up pretences before something slips…" She paused for a moment. "Unless, however, they are exceptionally dimwitted, in which case I am forced to go to extra efforts to assure that the sentiment eventually drills its way into their head."

Ludwig smiled, chucking lowly. "So… you like me, then?" he guessed.

She blinked, looking momentarily thrown for a loop, and he watched seeds of heat blossom in her cheeks in the scarce second before she dipped her head. She cleared her throat, quietly, against her palm. "That is one possible interpretation of my behaviour, I suppose…"

"Milady…"

She looked up again.

"You should get some rest," he said softly, "it's late…"

That grin was back. "I suppose the chances of me convincing you to go back in before me, with my most sincere assurances that I'll follow immediately after, are slim?"

"Very."

She sighed and propped her elbows on the rail, tilting her head back to eye the stars. "So be it, then, I won't bother to persuade her, but I'm not yet tired. You'll have to wait some time here with me yet if you wish to keep your constant vigil."

A slight smile crossed Ludwig's face, his eyes tracing their way up the line of Madeline's neck before he caught himself and diverting his gaze. "I can do that," he said. "But… if we're to be spending so much time together, I hope you won't mind my asking one more question?"

She turned her head towards him, head cocked in curiosity.

"Why did you wager for a kiss, if you had no intention of collecting on it?"

She raised her eyebrows, amusement tugging at the corners of her lips. "When did I ever say I had no intentions of collecting?"

Ludwig blinked. "You said in your cabin–"

"–that I had no intention of _sleeping _with you," his charge clarified. "The last I checked, those two were far from necessarily going hand in hand."

Ludwig held her stare steadily. "Alright," he said finally, "then why a kiss? Why at all? What do you…" _…want from me? _"What do you hope to get out of it?" He considered his own question for a moment. "Or do you simply enjoy making people uncomfortable?"

She huffed. "It's not that!" she said, but then smiled, amending, "…well, perhaps that is a small factor, but…" She shook her head. "That certainly was not my driving motive. I…" Her brow furrowed, pensive. "I suppose I had nothing to lose, with either dying or enduring the rest of life taking such a dull role in my future betrothed's life. And I've never met someone that I've taken an interest in as quickly as you," she answered honestly.

There was a short silence, filled only by the quiet slap of the ocean against the hull and rolling breeze.

Then she said, much quieter, "I also can't recall ever kissing someone solely for the purpose of doing just that… or whose company I enjoyed, for that matter."

Ludwig eyed her, unable to help the onset of a slow frown. "Milady…" he started, concern seeping into his tone despite his best intentions; she didn't seem the type to exactly appreciate pity of any sort, "–if…"

"It's not as pathetic as it sounds, I assure you," she cut in, clearing her throat and straightening her stance with a small, pursed frown of her own. "I merely… I have rarely found a person who does not ignore me or underestimate me completely. It is difficult to talk to other citizens of the court, as it is simply impossible for me to hold a conversation with such… selfish people. I don't have much tolerance for ignorance, and little to no patience for insolence."

When her eyes met his, they _dared _him to press the issue.

He looked away first. "So, in order to ensure your success, you cheated?"

She snorted. "In a game with only two rules?" She shook her head. "No. I heard nothing about the prohibition of magic. I was dishonest, perhaps," she conceded, "but did nothing against the established rules."

"It was you, then…"

"Of course," she replied. "Who else would I have been?"

"So… you're not human–?"

"I _am _human!" she snapped with startling ferocity, almost before he finished his question, and then blinked the next instant, as if surprised herself by the harshness of her own outburst. After a moment, it looked as though she might add more, or apologize, but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out, and she shut it again a moment later, turning her frown in another direction.

Ludwig watched and waited, hugely puzzled and curious, but also very aware that he had touched on a subject that probably ought not be pursed – at least, certainly not for the time being.

If he had accused her of witchcraft or tainted ancestry, he might have understood her defensiveness, but in his experience, nobles often _flaunted _magical heritage. If a prestigious family could trace its roots back to elves, fae folk, or even dragonkin, they treasured it like a pedigree and held it over the heads of anyone they could. The fact that she shrank back from even the suggestion…

"I apologize," she muttered, looking not at him but at the sea beyond. "That was rude of me. Your question didn't merit quite an… impassioned response. You could say I simply haven't had a particularly positive experience with magic," she explained, "…or those who wield it, for that matter, and my own is extremely limited, to say the least. I can conjure minor illusions – like that of the feeling of heat, as I did on you – but it does no lasting damage and I wouldn't be able to keep it up. I might be able to mend a paper cut or a bloody knee, but for any large scale purposes, my magic is useless. Which is just as well, as I have no fondness for it."

"And yet you use it?" Ludwig asked.

She blinked, looking at him as if he had asked if water was wet.

In the distance, something loud and low cracked, a sharp sound that reverberated over the sea, and they both started at once. Ludwig frowned and his charge tensed at his side, going completely rigid.

"Was that… thunder?" she asked, and Ludwig scanned the sky on instinct, though already shaking his head. Scattered storm clouds blotted out the stars in the far distance, but none very near, and he had yet to see lightning.

"I don't think so," he said. "There's been a storm brewing since evening, but that sounded more like–"

Closer this time, the same sound cracked, followed moments later by a resounding splash that erupted to the right of the ship, and together, they finished in unison, "_Cannon _fire."

* * *

"No! No, no, no, what do they think they're _doing_?!" Elizabeta hissed, furious, as she rushed up to the bow of her ship. "I gave specific orders not to – _uugghhh_!" Her wings buzzed to life, magic tingling through her as she lifted to a foot or so hover above the deck. "SADIK!"

Said man was beside her almost immediately. "Eliza?"

"See to it that Mervil and Teranah quit wasting their magic on cloaking us, the _Dawn Strider _has clearly given away our position. Bring the ship up on our target's starboard bow, and have the _Durandal _cover her aft. I have some words for the captain of the _Strider_…"

"Right, Captain!" he replied immediately, and she was off, zipping up, into the air – cool, but crisp and fresh. Moments later, she was down again, landing only a few feet away from the startled, second-in-command fleet master aboard the ship that had fired the cannons.

"Captain Héverdáry–"

She whirled to face the deck, commanding, _"CEASE FIRE!" _in a voice that boomed surprisingly well over the most recent crack of another cannon shot. "This is your commanding officer ordering that you hold _all _attacks until otherwise instructed – Lieutenant!" She rounded back around as she finished, facing the man at the wheel once again. "Would you care to explain to me why your men are _attacking _our target on a hostage mission with _cannons _before we've secured our objective?"

"Captain–"

"Hold your excuses!" she snapped. "We don't have time for them now. Bring your ship around to the target's port bow, board with your best men as soon as you've secured your position, and do _not _kill _any _of the passengers aboard that ship. Do I make myself _absolutely _clear?"

"Yes, captain!"

Without waiting for a word more, she took off again.

Beside the target ship, her own vessel, the _Magyar, _was already coming into position, but their quarry had obviously been well warned, many of them already flocking to the deck, ready themselves to fend off their attackers. Useless as they were, given the extent to which they were outnumbered, the defensive manoeuvres still meant the possibility of more lives lost on her end, considering that their targets were not bound by such constricting rules as 'Don't kill the enemy,' and she swore aloud, vowing mentally to wring the neck personally of the man involved in firing those cannons.

No time for that now, though. Instead, as Sadik brought the main ship to a hold, some of her men immediately boarding, Elizabeta flit down, landing on the deck.

As the most recent incident – along with any number of past issues – proved, the only way to truly ensure that things proceeded properly was to get her hands dirty and handle them herself. This was no exception. Thus, as soon as she felt her feet touch deck, her eyes went to work – darting over the ship, scanning the crowds, and tallying up their numbers – her magic stretching out further still, seeking the corresponding blip of power that would pinpoint their target.

In moments, Elizabeta had her location. She dodged the crowds easily enough – smaller than of the crew and practiced at manoeuvring – and closed in on the cabin quite handily until–

"Whatever you want…"

She half tripped in her haste to halt, still nearly skidding face first into one of the largest human beings she had ever seen, and her eyes travelled up. Up, over a body taller than a full grown troll and finally to two, dangerous, narrowed blue eyes that held hers steady as a rock.

"…it is not in that room."

Elizabeta tightened her stance, weapons already at the ready in her hands, her own eyes narrowed – not only in a threat, but also in thought. This human looked awfully familiar to her, but where had she seen him before? "Back off," she demanded. "You have no idea what you're dealing with."

Barely perceptibly, his posture shifted – lower, more grounded and defensive – but his eyes never left her. "I can promise you, everything of material value is below deck. You'll gain nothing from attacking our passengers and crew. Take what you want and leave."

"Oh, I plan to," she said, leering. "But you are the only thing standing between me and _everything _I came for."

Her blades met with steel in a sharp, sheer clang, and her opponent swore in a tongue even she barely recognized. Something about his own poor luck and violent, angry women, by the sound of things, and Elizabeta raised her eyebrows, darting deftly despite her amusement.

"Women troubles?" she guessed, behind him with a flick of her wings and he spun – impressively quickly, for such a large man – but not _quite _quickly enough.

"How–? _Nnnhh…"_

Elizabeta's weapons, having served their purpose, were back in their sheaths, her hands catching at his wrists the instant he turned, and the man well over two heads taller than her and most probably triple her weight or more stilled in his tracks, slowing like a rabbit hitting quicksand.

Behind her, a woman's voice called, "No, don't let her touch–!" but that, too, came too late, and the human's eyelids sagged.

"And… magic again, too…" He fell to his knees, collapsing.

"Don't worry," Elizabeta consoled the unconscious man, "you'll sleep very, very well…" She turned to the woman. "But you–"

Her sentence never made it, her stomach rolling and her head swaying dizzily, and for a moment all she could see was fire: Fire, and claws, and immense, midnight-black wings that cast a deadly shadow on all the screaming victims beneath it. Then, jarringly, she jerked back to the present, her heart throbbing wildly in her chest as she faced one of her nightmares' look-alikes.

This woman was _not _who she was thought she was – that woman was dead, as far as Elizabeta knew, had died in the tragedy that she herself had conspired in creating.

They might have had the same sunshine blonde hair that spilled her body like a light curtain and the same pale-as-porcelain skin that caught moonlight like a restless spirit, perhaps – but they were not the same. This woman in front of her was younger, for one, and lacked those wicked, poison-green eyes that reflected fear like a looking-glass. Her magical signal was also _far _smaller – almost insignificant.

By the time Elizabeta had pulled herself back together, the woman was at the fallen man's side, her fingers to his throat, likely feeling for a pulse. When she found one, she looked up sharply, meeting Elizabeta's eyes head on.

"He knows _nothing_!" she tried to yell above the noise. "No one on this ship does! If you hurt him…"

"Now, now… hush up," Elizabeta said, working as much menace as she could manage into her tone, despite her still shaken state. "You're in no position to bargain, let alone threaten me. I will make the demands here. What is he, your consort?"

"No! He is human, and unbound," she insisted. "We have no relation. If you have business with me, take me, but leave this ship and this crew, please! They–"

"We'll see about that," Elizabeta said, softer, her magic already reaching out when she caught the startled woman at the throat.

The instant they made contact, Elizabeta nearly dropped her hold, a strange, foreign magic swelling and undulating under her fingertips like a riptide: Powerful illusion magic, almost overwhelmingly so, in an aura that soaked her target like water through a sponge. It was winding, thick, complex, and _thorough_, clearly meant and stick and stay stuck. Elizabeta had to fight to sink her own magic through it, like swimming upstream.

Luckily, though, the curse was obviously an outsider's work, the woman herself having only miniscule magic defenses, and she weakened quickly, her muscles softening and brief struggles petering off in moments.

Then, her strength waning to the breaking point, her lips curled back, and – eyes narrowed and words breathy but venomous – she snarled, "Fairy… _witch_," in the last moments before her lashes finally dipped, sagged under the weight of Elizabeta's magic, and shut. Like a cut puppet, she crumpled to the ground beside the other human, and Elizabeta swayed on her feet.

Dizzy and weak from the magical exertion, she panted the retort, _"Spawn…" _like the dirtiest insult to be had, and promised, "…I'll deal with you later." Two powerful sleep spells in the lesser part of a few minutes really drained a person. And she hadn't even found the boy she had been _sent _after.

What had Vlad said the man went by? Matthew?

She would have to interrogate the blonds later. Assuming they survived long enough to wake up.

* * *

**A/N **;; Hmm… Hungary as a pirate… I do like this. Oh, yes, I do.


	8. Fate of this story - author's note

**A/N **;; Okay, guys, I'm just going to say this: I kind of… sort of… hate this story. Not the plot, just the characterizations of one of our main heroes. Okay? Now that we have that out of the way, I can get to the point of this author's note. As I was going through and editing this story, I realized something rather peculiar, that thing being that I wrote Canada in very much the same way that I write England. Okay, so that's not such a big deal, right? Well, yeah, it _is _a big deal. I realized that you could replace England's character with Canada's… and this story would not be any different in the slightest – just the slightest changes in dialogue, appearance, names, and you'd be good to go! I looked over the storyline I had planned for the remainder of the story, and I can see nothing but _EnglandEnglandEngland _when I look over future scenes and pieces of dialogue I had planned for Canada's character.

So, guys, would you be opposed to me taking down this story and switching up the characters? But! Don't jump down my throat just yet! I've been thinking about this for the past three weeks or so, stewing over the possible repercussions and the possibility that I would lose a lot of readers over this, but I honestly think that this would be the best course of action. I have another GerCan story in progress, so I'd be willing to upload that a little bit early to tide over the loss of this story, but would you guys hate me if I took this story down? There have been some absolutely wonderful reviewers on this story and I'd hate to lose some of you over my own mistake.

If I did take down this story, the title would be changed, the chapters would be rewritten, characters would be changed, etc. The plot would stay the same, as I know exactly where it's going, but other than that, this story would receive an overhaul.

And before any of you ask, yes, I have tried to rewrite a few of the chapters and add more defining characteristics that would define Canada's character more, but even so, I don't see Canada. I see _England_. Maybe I'm just being paranoid about this, but I'm being honest. So, guys, would you leave your opinions? Please? Nothing is set in stone yet, but I'd like to hear what my readers think.

Basically, what I'm saying is that if you honestly like this story and would care if I took it down, leave and review and tell me so. I'll leave this up for a couple more weeks, so I can think about this some more, but your guys' opinions are important to me.

Oh, and so I don't get reported for only uploading an author's note, here is an excerpt of chapter eight:

* * *

The next time he came close to waking, he felt himself tilting and swaying to a far more exaggerated extent than on any ship, making him think in passing that he must be on a smaller vessel of some sort. The close smell of the sea and the occasional misty wet spray on his cheeks added to that sense, paired with very near but unfamiliar voices. Once more, though, he lost it, sinking back into relative oblivion before he could get any real handle on his surroundings, and when he finally _succeeded _in dragging himself awake, he was somewhere else entirely.

He registered the silence first – quieter, even, than the last time he had woken – disturbed only by the distant, quiet rush of water against the hull and the soft, low groaning of the ship itself. When he stirred, he noted immediately that he was also unbound, thankfully, both his hands and feet free of any restrictions. He pushed himself up cautiously, onto his elbows, blinking and waiting for his eyes to adjust, all the while wary of another dizzy spell or head rush. Thankfully, none came.

Instead, a dark, all but vacant holding cell came into view, the blackness broken only by a few scattered beams of silvern moonlight fighting their way through a barred metal grate at the top of the ceiling, in the centre of the room. Matthew frowned, moving to sit up more fully when–

"You're awake."

He jerked around, nearly falling over himself in his haste, and a hand caught his shoulder, catching and stilling him. "You," Matthew accused in a half pant, half snap, his heart in his throat, "are–"

"My apologies, miss," his guard said quietly. "I should have given you fairer warning, I didn't mean to startle you."

"Y–mm…" Matthew cut himself off mid-word, humming doubtfully, but kept both his eyes on his escort, in any case, rubbing his still-throbbing neck and willing his pulse to calm. "You could just make more noise," he suggested, and through the darkness, he thought he saw a flash of white teeth, his eyes not yet completely adjusted to the dark.

"I could try that, for you, I suppose."

"In my defense," Matthew grumbled, "it is pitch black in these shadows. I can _still _barely see you despite knowing exactly where you are. You blend in. How do you _do _that?"

A chuckle sounded – deep and quiet – and yes, that was definitely a flash of teeth as Ludwig tossed him a little smile. "Valid points, milady."

Matthew's eyes followed the sound of soft, padded footsteps, and a moment later, his guard stepped into the light. It spilled, white, over his shoulders, lending a luminescent, ethereal glow to his fair skin. All Matthew could think of, in the first few seconds, was that the man could have _touched _the grate over their heads if he just reached his arm up. Dammit, he missed his height.

"Better?" Ludwig asked, and Matthew forced his mind back to the present, dragging his eyes _off _his guard's shoulders and over to the far wall.

"Yes," he said. "Much. Thank you." When Ludwig settled himself, dropping to sit just within the light, Matthew waited a moment before, curiosity getting the better of him, he asked, "Not that I'm not glad that it was _you _I woke up with and not another strange man, but what are you doing here? That is… Why would they place us together?"


End file.
